You see, he says, it’s you who can’t be trusted.
It’s you who spent two months in the nuthouse for lighting that fire on the back deck of her house only weeks after walking out on her. The fire that would have killed them all if the flame had taken. But that was a long time ago. And you’re all better now. You have a stellar career, you have your health, you have some scratch in your pocket, and most of all, you have Lisa to call your own again. You both made mistakes along the way and you succeeded in hurting one another. But now you’ve agreed to look beyond the mistakes of the past and to try one final time. If not for you both, then for Anna’s sake. So why take a chance on screwing that all up for a second time?
Focus on something else.
Get out of the house. Go for a run. Go out for breakfast. Go to the Starbucks and write. Go away for the night. Go see your agent in the city. Or call Blood. Go drinking with him. Just don’t start searching the house for something you do not want to find. Lisa has taken you back. She wants to give it another try, even after all the crap that went down the first time around. Isn’t that enough to tell you she loves you? Wants you? Forgives you? Forgives herself?
Don’t do it.
Don’t dig too deep, don’t think too hard. There are things about you and Lisa and the past that you are just not going to want to remember. You hear me, Reece? Some things are better off forgotten. Don’t open that lid, Son. Because once you pry it off, you’ll never get it back on.
Just. Don’t. Do. It.
Here’s what I do instead: I set the phone back down onto the counter, go to the junk drawer, dig around in the very back behind all the junk. I find the little pack of wood matches that I’ve stored there for just such an emergency, when my anxiety begins to get the best of me. Stuffing the matches into my jeans pocket, I head out the back sliding glass door, then out through the gate in the fence to the left of the deck. I follow the fence line until I come to a dirt road that leads to the edge of Little’s Lake State Park, which abuts Lisa’s property.
The park is protected by a chain-link fence, which I can easily scale. Jumping down onto its opposite side, I head through the weeds and bushes until I come to the park. Set directly before me is Little’s Lake, which is more like a very large, kidney-shaped pond. To my right is the swamp and beyond that, a small patch of woods consisting mostly of tall pines. To my left is a picnic area that also serves as a small, sandy beach. Several garbage cans made of heavy concrete and metal are situated throughout the picnic area beside some black metal charcoal grills that beer-drinking teenagers use for burning wood during the cool weekend nights.
I go to the first can that’s facing me, look inside it. It’s filled with paper cartons, old newspapers, and other junk.
Perfect . . .
Looking one way and then the other, I grab hold of a chunk of newspaper and roll it into a tight, one-foot length of paper pipe. Then, reaching into my pocket, I pull out the matches and take one from the box. I strike the match and bring the orange flame to the tip of the dry newspaper. The paper takes the fire like it’s been waiting for it. As it rapidly combusts, giving off its heat, I feel the calmness that envelops my insides. It’s a feeling that can only be duplicated by sex, and even then, sex can be hit or miss sometimes. But fire? Well, fire always performs because after all, everything burns.
Dropping the paper into the can, it only takes a few seconds for the entire container to light up so that the flame shoots out of the top round opening like a volcano that’s just erupted. I can’t help but recall an old nursery rhyme my mom used to recite when I was just a little boy. It helped to calm me down at night when I couldn’t sleep.
“Fire! Fire!” says the Town Crier.
“Where? Where?” says Goody Blaire.
“ ‘Burn! Burn!” says Goody Stern. “Burn her! Burn him!”
Once more I look over both shoulders, knowing that if I get caught, I’m being carted away to jail. Now that my dad is dead, I’ll have no choice but to track down Blood to bail me out.
Okay, maybe I lied a little. Maybe I’m not over fire.
Maybe I never will be.
But lighting these garbage cans on fire every now and again is better than lighting someone’s home on fire. At least that’s what I keep on telling myself as I turn tail and head back to Lisa’s house.
Chapter 3
When I slip back inside the house through the sliding glass doors, I can see that Frankie is lapping water from her dish. When she’s done, she turns, looks up at me with her big black eyes.
“You’re giving me that look again, Frank,” I say, my eyes shifting from the dog to the phone and back again. “You know, the look that says you’re worried about me. Well, let me reassure you that I am in total control of my situation . . . my alone situation.”
I’m picturing the garbage container and the fire that is no doubt still burning strong. I listen for the sound of fire engines, but I don’t hear a thing other than my heart pounding in my chest.
“What is it with writers?” says Frankie. Or should I say, it’s what I imagine she would say, if only she could talk. “You can’t stand having people around you, but then you go completely nuts when you’re left all alone.”
I consider this while pursing my lips.
“We usually end up shooting ourselves,” I say. “Or hanging from the rafters. Or, in my case anyway, burning things down. At the very least, we sometimes engage in imaginary conversations with dogs.”
I can’t help but imagine what my older brothers would have done if they saw me conversing with one of the dogs that used to roam our neighborhood back in the seventies. Tommy, a thickly black-haired, mature seventeen-year-old and the weight lifter of the family, probably would have tossed his big arm around my neck and put me in a chokehold until I swore I would never talk to another dog again. Patrick, the younger at sixteen, and whose freckled face and red hair made us wonder where he came from, would have laughed his ass off and poked fun at me until I cried. But when the tears finally came they’d both take me out for ice cream.
In my mind, they are both still teenagers, and both still watching out for me even while busting my chops.
“And what an imagination you have,” Frankie says. “Being a human must suck. But being a human and a paranoid artist must double-suck.”
The dog engages in a full-body shake that actually lifts her four paws off the floor, like a wind-up dog you buy at Kmart. Then she turns her back on me and heads down into the playroom for a nap.
“Yeah, I love you too, Frankie.”
Turning back to the counter, I once more lock eyes on the house phone that’s just sitting there. It’s lying on its side on the white Formica-covered counter beside a sink filled with dirty breakfast dishes, as if Lisa either didn’t have time to place it back on the cradle in the playroom or, in her rush to get out of here, absentmindedly tossed it onto the counter and forgot about it.
Don’t do it. Don’t touch the phone.
For the second time that morning, I pick the phone up. Just gripping it with my right hand makes my stomach grow tight while that pit in my chest gets bigger. Maybe it has something to do with the newness of my relationship with Lisa. My second-go-round relationship, that is. You would think that by now, I would know Lisa inside and out. But then, we’ve spent the better part of the last decade apart, much of that time occupied with other lovers. Like I said, people change.
As much as I think I still know her, a major part of Lisa seems like a stranger to me now. What’s different? It’s not easy to put my finger on it. But she seems more confident. Like the life she’s experienced without me has somehow affected her in ways she and I both never would have imagined. Her life experiences with David, that is.
Example: I’ve seen it in our lovemaking.
What used to be the typical heavy-petting foreplay followed by the few minutes of missiona
ry-position sex has now become something much more complicated, for lack of a better word. Lisa talks now, for one thing. Lying on her back in bed, she’ll ask me to do things to her that, years ago, never would have crossed her mind. Things that involve the tying of limbs, or blindfolding, or simply watching or being watched. She’s even asked me to recount for her in detail my sexual escapades with other women during our separation, especially the sex I had with Rachael, the woman who became my lover for three years. The more accurately I recount the sex, the more turned on she seems to get. It’s an entirely new experience for me, and it can be as exciting as it can be disturbing.
Lisa has changed. There’s no denying it. Nothing unusual about that.
But I can’t wrap my head around the fact that David is entirely responsible for changing her. He’s the only man she shared a bed with after I left. Or so she’s assured me. Her relationship with him lasted far longer than our marriage. Sometimes I can’t help but think that David is still changing her. That this mystery man, David Bourenhem, the man who replaced me in Lisa’s bed, is forever going to be in her life, whether I like it or not.
Holding the phone in my hand, I stare down at the black-on-white digital push-button numbers, at the clear electronic readout, at the green “Talk” button, and the red “End” button. Located in the center of the phone is a push-button command application that allows you to access a list of incoming calls or a list of outgoing calls.
I feel the cold, hard plastic of the phone resting in the hot, perspiring palm of my hand, and I thumb the command for incoming calls. The first call that appears is the most recent. The date on the light-up display is today. The time is eight thirty in the morning. The caller ID reads “Vickie.” Lisa’s mother.
I thumb to the next caller.
It says “Olga,” and it’s from last night. Olga is one of Lisa’s neighborhood “mom” friends, even if the fortysomething woman is childless and recently divorced. She lives all by herself just a few houses down from Lisa.
Next person on the list is Blood. Although he would never lower himself to leave an actual message, I know he’s returning my call from last week regarding the novel I’m presently writing and some research I’m in need of. I make a mental note to call him back.
Next caller. It’s a 1-800 number. A cold caller looking to sell something.
I thumb the device for the next number. My heart beats a paradiddle in my chest. It’s as if my gut knows exactly who the next caller will be even before I press the button. The name “David” appears. He called yesterday afternoon, when I would have been at the gym. Three o’clock on the dime. As if the call were planned that way.
My heart goes from beating to pounding.
I thumb through the rest of the numbers. David’s number shows up three more times over the course of five days. Each one of the calls is scheduled for a time when I can be counted on not to be home. Times that match my daily routine precisely. Times when I am either at the gym, or outside jogging, or at my writing studio in the city.
Shifting my thumb, I check the outgoing messages. Lisa has called David only once. Just five minutes after he called her yesterday afternoon. Calling him back rather than choosing to ignore him.
My mouth goes dry as I further scroll down to a directive that will allow me to listen to caller messages. But when I press “Listen,” the electronic prerecorded voice tells me that there are no new messages. If David left a message, Lisa has already erased it.
Placing the phone back down on the counter, I feel my body begin to enter into a slow burn. Questions: Should I call Lisa, expose her lie, and demand an explanation? Should I ask her point-blank why she is scheduling calls with her ex for when I am not going to be around? Should I press her on why she continues to communicate with him now that they are broken up? And why lie about it?
I draw a deep breath, exhale it slowly. To be truthful, I feel like running back to the park and lighting another garbage can on fire. But that would be stupid. The cops might be prowling the place now, searching for the crazy pyro who keeps lighting up the cans.
I’ve got to get my shit together and look at the phone calls for what they are. Just phone calls. What harm can they do? Maybe if Lisa didn’t tell me about them, it’s for my own good. Why start unnecessary trouble? Maybe Frankie is right when she says I’m being paranoid. Maybe Dad is right when he insists that keeping the lid sealed on this Pandora’s box is my only option. I have no reason to believe that anything bad is happening behind my back. Anything devious. Sure, Lisa has changed since our first go-round together. But she’s always been the most trustworthy woman I know. That was the constant bond we shared. No matter what happened between us. My writer’s block, my inability to support my family, my drinking, my breakdowns, my need for fire . . . no matter what happened, we could always count on one another for one thing: trust.
Or perhaps I just wanted to believe I could trust her.
Lisa lied when she said David hasn’t been calling.
That’s her fault.
But what’s not her fault is that he will not go away.
Chapter 4
I check the time.
Nine o’clock.
I should get back to work on the new novel. But then, I’m not feeling very creative right now. Better if I do something physical, like head out for an early run, in the opposite direction of Little’s Lake, just to play it safe. After that, I can hit the gym. A little exercise will clear my head, take my mind off things. Later, after I’ve showered, I’ll see things in a new light. I’ll see that I’m just being the jealous ex-husband.
But first, I need to do something.
I shove my right hand into my pants pocket, locate the pack of wood matches with my fingers. Sliding back a cardboard top that sports a picture of Smokey the Bear wearing a park ranger’s hat, I pull out a single match and stare at it like a pack-a-day smoker who’s just decided to quit quitting.
I shoot a glance over my right shoulder, spot Frankie looking up at me from where she’s lying on the sofa.
“Not a word of this to Lisa or Anna, you understand, Frank?”
“What’s in it for me, Reecey Pieces?”
“Extra dog treats. Bacon Bits. I swear it.”
“Knock yourself out. My lips are sealed.”
I’ve done my research. The striker on a matchbox is constructed of 25 percent powdered glass, 50 percent red phosphorus, and some other things like black carbon. Most people give it little thought, but matchbox construction is a science all its own.
I strike the match and it happens: the rapid oxidation of an exothermal reaction that results in instantaneous combustion and the release of light and heat. A beautiful red-orange glow. As the fire burns, I feel my heart rest and my breathing grow easy. Easier, anyway. It’s not quite the almost sexual sensation I get from torching those garbage cans, but for a legal quick fix, it will have to do.
I breathe in the acrid smell of burnt powder, charcoal, and wood and it makes me happy. I allow the matchstick fire to burn right down to the tips of my fingers. I take the pain delivered by five hundred degrees Fahrenheit until the fingertips begin to sizzle and blister, and I can’t take it anymore. Only then do I toss the still-lit match into the sink, where it falls into a coffee cup still partially filled with coffee. The matchstick dies with a gentle hiss, like its fiery soul has left its body.
I shoot another glance at Frankie. “Okay, so what do you want from me? I’ve never fully gotten over fire.”
The dog raises up her head from the couch just a little. “Now who’s the liar?” she says.
Canine’s got a point.
“I guess the fire is never far from my mind, Frank,” I say.
I wait for a response which, thankfully, doesn’t come.
Chapter 5
In the master bedroom, I dig out my running clothes, which are stuffed into the
bottom of an old backpack I’ve owned for going on twenty years now. You find something that works, you stick with it. Reece the practical.
I’ve yet to be allocated my own chest of drawers at Lisa’s new house. Things take time. I was, however, granted a key to the place just a couple of weeks back. A major life-move Lisa didn’t take the least bit lightly. It’s important to take things slow and steady in these matters. What’s the rush? We’ve been apart for nearly a decade. What difference is a few more months of living separate, but together, going to make in the grand scheme of things?
I pull out my running shorts, a plain cotton T-shirt, and my running shoes. But no matter how much I search the backpack I can’t find any socks. Lisa must have tossed them in the wash. As much as she’s changed over the years, there’s one thing that hasn’t: Lisa’s near-obsessive hatred for even the slightest accumulation of soiled clothing. If it were up to me, I’d use a single pair of jogging socks for three or four days before I changed them. My dad used to do the same thing when we were living together way back when. A dedicated gym rat, and my weight-lifting big brother Tommy’s hero, he’d wear the same workout clothes for two or three days before switching up to some clean ones. “What the hell,” he used to say, not without a smile, “they’re only going to get sweaty again.”
I’m not running without socks. I go to Lisa’s chest of drawers and open the top right-hand drawer. It’s filled with sweaters of all makes and colors. Wrong drawer. I check the one below that. Jeans and pants. Then, the one below that. T-shirts and sweatshirts. Shifting over to the left-hand side, I pull open the second drawer down.
Socks. I shuffle through them until I find a pair of black peds. Perfect. I should stop right there and get back to dressing for my run.
Everything Burns Page 3