Everything Burns

by Vincent Zandri

  “You were out lighting fires,” Alex interjects. It’s his idea of a joke.

  “Listen, Alex,” I say, “I’ll admit I haven’t been the best father in the world, and that I wasn’t the best husband in the world either. Like I said, I had some issues I needed to work out. But now I’m healthy, wealthy, and calm. Lisa’s taken me back. Why not get used to it?”

  “Wanna talk about it outside, writer man?”

  “Alexander,” Victoria barks one more time. “Stop making the same mistakes you made with David.”

  “Hey,” he says, “the fruitcake would never have given me a fight. At least Reece has some tough guy in him. Be a fair fight at least.” He laughs.

  “How fair?” I say. “I’m younger than you, Alex. Okay, you’re bigger than me, I will give you that. But I’m not sure that knocking my teeth down my throat is still something you’re capable of, no matter how much you try and peacock those old feathers of yours.”

  “Never underestimate years of experience, Reecey boy,” he says, picking his paper back up, pretending to casually read it. “But just remember, I have my good eye on your ass. If you harm even a single hair on either Lisa’s or Anna’s head, I will come down on you like the devil himself. Understood, Fire Starter?”

  My blood is hot, but I listen to my gut and keep my mouth shut. Like I said, he’s not all wrong.

  Victoria gets up from her chair. “Reece,” she says, “why don’t you go up and say hello to the girls now. Then maybe think about making it an early night. Lisa needs her sleep, and I sense just by looking at you that you could use some serious rest too.”

  “Thanks for thinking of me.”

  I’m gladly heading out of the kitchen into the dining room on my way to the wraparound Gone with the Wind staircase off the vestibule when she stops me.

  “Reece,” she says, slightly under her breath as she steps out of the kitchen to come closer to me. “Are you sure you’re okay? You really don’t look so good, and it worries me.”

  She’s looking at my wounded leg. The blood spot has grown to the size of a beer coaster. And my jeans are torn at the knee. I probably need another shower and I’ve got ink stains on my finger pads from the fingerprinting at the APD. I might say something about the break-in at Lisa’s, but I’m guessing that if she and Alex don’t already know about it, then Lisa doesn’t want them to know. Can’t say I blame her.

  “Oh, that,” I say, looking down at my bad leg. “I tripped and fell outside the house getting the mail.”

  “You been drinking, son?” Alex calls from the kitchen.

  His ears are not only large, they still work pretty damn well at his advanced age. That’s when it dawns on me that I have been drinking since the late morning. I can’t help but wonder if they’ve smelled it on my breath along with the cigarette smoke.

  Of course they have, Reece, whispers my dad. You can’t get anything past these people. They’re living, breathing, walking radar stations, and they’ve finely tuned them to detect threats to their daughter and granddaughter, like you and David Bourenhem, from a million miles away.

  “No, Alex, I haven’t been drinking,” I lie. “But I could sure as hell use one right about now.”

  “You might have that leg looked at by a doctor,” Victoria says. “Maybe the emergency room. I’ll bet the mortgage you need stitches.”

  “I’ve cleaned and bandaged the wound,” I say. “I was working in the yard raking leaves, burning the piles. I got a little dirty in the process.”

  “If you say so,” she says.

  I just want to get the hell away from them. Turning back toward the vestibule, I make for the stairs.

  “Don’t you bleed on anything,” Alex barks. He can’t resist a final jab. “The cleaning lady just shined the crap out of the joint.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Alex,” I say. “ ’Sides, you know what they say.”

  “No, what do they say?”

  “You can’t shine shit.”

  Chapter 39

  Upstairs, I find Lisa lying on her back in her old high school–era queen-sized bed, the wall-mounted plasma her parents had installed for the occasional sleepovers with Anna tuned into the Bravo channel. I recognize the program that’s currently broadcasting. It’s Housewives of Beverly Hills or New York City or New Jersey or one of those quote–reality shows–unquote that’s full of cosmetic-surgery-fixed tits-and-ass and plenty of staged catfights between sex kittens. Lisa is keeping perfectly still while both her eyes are covered with white ice packs.

  “Howdy, stranger,” Lisa says, trying to work up a smile through some obvious facial discomfort. “Thought that was you talking to the ’rents. So how you getting along with the out-laws anyway?” Her voice is a bit groggy, but not as bad as I thought it would be. Must be the sedative wears off quickly.

  “Peachy,” I say. “They make me feel like Charles Manson on a bad acid trip. Your old man asked me if I’m still playing with matches. They’re obviously still convinced I’m the old Reece.” Wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “Didn’t occur to you to call me, tell me you were okay?”

  “I’ve been sleeping, honey. My bad. You sound stressed. Is it because of the house? Because of David? You all right?”

  Oh, just a little beat after cleaning up a murder on your back lawn.

  Looking around the room.

  “Where’s Anna?”

  “Bathroom,” she says. “Wish I could see you.”

  “Count your blessings. After today’s shit storms, I’m not exactly a pretty sight.”

  Raising both her hands, Lisa shifts the ice packs down so her eyes are uncovered. They’re glazed and swollen. I’m not sure how she can watch the television, much less keep them open.

  “Can you see anything?” I say, sitting gently on the edge of the bed, taking her hand. “Does it hurt much?”

  “I can’t really see,” she says, raising up the clicker, turning off the bickering housewives. “I can hear, though. And it doesn’t hurt so much as my eyes feel irritated. Like I keep burning them with soap.” She makes a couple of exaggerated sniffs. “Someone’s been to the bar,” she adds. “And is that cigarette smoke I smell?”

  “No bars,” I say. “But I needed a couple of pops. Bought a twelve-pack and, ummm, a pack of Marlboro Lights.”

  “Wow, just like old times,” she exhales. “David comes to visit me at the medical center and you turn to the bottle and the cancer sticks.”

  “At least I’m owning it. That’s the first step.”

  “I’m sorry about David. But he really means no harm and you had no right to do what you did to him at his apartment.”

  I feel her hand in mine. I fall just short of filling her in on his having filed for a restraining order. But then, maybe he’s already told her.

  “I’m really sorry, Leese. It’s just that your house . . . the break-in . . . It seemed like he was responsible.” In my head I’m seeing Olga on fire. But no way am I letting Lisa in on that right now, if ever.

  “Impossible.”

  “From where I’m standing, I see a man who still loves the shit out of you, is still obsessing over your ass. You broke up with him because of me, remember? That little fact might not be sitting too well. He might be thinking of revenge.”

  “He’ll get over me,” she says. “The real issue is my poor house. I can’t believe I’m taking all this lying on my back. If I wasn’t so drugged up on oxy and anesthesia, I’d be screaming. But somehow, lying here right now, feeling like crap, I can’t even think about it. I assume you’ve called the cops, and you’re absolutely sure nothing was taken?”

  “Nothing. Does Anna know?”

  “No, and that’s the way it stays. My parents too. Now, as briefly as possible, tell me what happened.”

  Releasing Lisa’s hand, I get up and go back around to t
he foot of the bed. I proceed to relay the high points of the break-in, one after the other. I tell her about the clothes laid out on the bed, about the chalkboard drawing, about the “posthumous bestseller” photograph tacked to her office bulletin board, about the “heretic” screen saver comment on my laptop that was lifted right out of The Damned, and finally about her office and Anna’s bedroom being left totally untouched. Then I quickly tell her about Detective Miller. About his insisting it was a personal job by somebody who might have a key to the new locks, and about his insisting on taking my prints and making me provide both writing and drawing samples.

  She opens and closes her swelled eyes.

  “Something is definitely not right,” she says. “This is all very disturbing. If my parents knew about it, guess who they’d blame?”

  “From the sounds of it, your folks like David almost as much as me.”

  “Yeah, another struggling writer. They were about ready to commit me to a mental hospital when they first learned about David . . . No offense, Reece.”

  “None taken. What makes you so sure David isn’t capable of doing bad things to you and your house just to make a point?”

  “What point? Whoever laid my clothes out like that is most certainly not David. That’s just way too creepy for him.”

  “Maybe you just want to believe that, Leese.”

  “Possibly. But I know him as well as any woman can know a man. And I refuse to believe he’d do such a thing.”

  It pains me to hear her say how well she knows David. I’m reminded of the condoms hidden under the sink. I inhale a breath and release it.

  “Lisa,” I say, “I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to say it. I found a package of condoms in the cabinet under the sink. The purchase date on the package receipt is for one month ago.” Pausing for another breath, in and out. “Four are missing.”

  At first she says nothing. Then, despite her pain, she begins to giggle. “Oh my God, Reece, you have had a bad day, haven’t you?”

  “Word.”

  “Those were for us,” she says.

  “I’m snipped, remember?”

  “Yes, but I got paranoid when I started hearing that a lot of vasectomies don’t take, so I bought them. But then I got over my paranoia.”

  “Excuse me, but I don’t recall using any.”

  Her giggle turns into a laugh. “That’s because I gave four of them to Olga down the street. You can check with her if you like . . . if you don’t trust me, Reece.”

  So that’s why Olga came to the house. To get more condoms.

  “I trust you, hon. No need to investigate.”

  I hear the toilet flush and my daughter singing what I recognize as a Selena Gomez song, which I pray doesn’t get stuck inside my head.

  “Quickly,” I say, “before Anna comes back in.”

  “Quickly what, Reece?”

  “Do you have any idea who might have broken into your place? Like I said, Detective Miller called it a personal job. Not a random act. Nothing stolen, no sign of forcible entry. He’s going to want to talk to you when you feel better in a day or two.”

  “When I do, I’ll tell him the same thing I’ve been telling you. I don’t know anyone specific who would do something like that. But I do have an idea who might.”

  I hear the bathroom door open, and after a couple of quick seconds, Anna comes rushing in, jumping on the bed.

  “Anna, please!” Lisa barks.

  “Oops, sorry, Momsies,” Anna says. She makes an exaggerated frown and shoots me a roll of her big brown eyes like she thinks Mommy is being dramatic. “How’s it going, Reecey Pieces?”

  She’s holding one of those glossy teenybopper magazines with smooth, peach-fuzzed boy-band faces on the cover. Settling in beside her mother, she opens the magazine and continues where she left off in the bathroom.

  “What’s your idea, Lisa?” I ask, deciding to carry on the conversation even with Anna present, hoping she won’t pick up on the subject of our talk.

  “You’re a popular author, Reece—”

  “Not that popular, Reecey Pieces,” Anna interjects. “You’re just an Amazon best seller.”

  “Ha-ha, squirt.” I pinch and tickle her toes. “Amazon is where it’s at these days.”

  “Daddy!” she screams before busting out in laughter. Just looking at her smooth, round face taking on one of her sly, tight smiles makes my heart ache. But then, that’s a good thing. It means the love I have for her is so big, my heart is too small to hold it all.

  “Okay, so I’m sort of a popular author,” I say. “On Amazon.”

  “That’s more like it,” Anna says. Then, peeking out from behind her magazine. “What happened to your knee, Reecey? It’s all torn up.”

  I gaze down at the ever-growing spot of blood on the ripped jeans.

  “Oh, that’s nothing, honey. I cut it on a piece of glass.”

  “Keep drinking beers, Reece,” Lisa chimes in. “One day you’re gonna cut your wrists by accident.”

  “Wow, thanks for that commentary, Helen Keller.”

  She opens her eyes and, gently bringing her hands to her face, shifts the ice packs back into place over them.

  “Back to the subject at hand, Reece,” she says. “What I’m saying is this: You’re always getting strange women making advances at you on Facebook. And what’s worse, you encourage them because it strokes your ego. You’ve shown me some of their e-mails because that’s an ego-stroker too. Remember that one who wanted to kill herself if you wouldn’t marry her? She said she was going to find your house in Albany if it was the last thing she ever did.”

  “Really?” Anna says, laying the magazine in her lap. “That’s like total whack.”

  “That woman lives all the way out in Boston,” I say. “I don’t think she’d make the drive here just to flip your house. Besides, no one knows where you live. Plus, I never talk about you or Anna on Facebook. What’s private stays private.”

  “What’s ‘flip your house’ mean?” Anna asks.

  “Nothing that concerns you, angel,” Lisa answers. “Daddy and I are having an adult conversation.”

  “About houses that do flips?” Anna says. “Cool.”

  “People, especially women, have a way of finding things out,” Lisa continues. “I’m putting my money on one of your stalker fans. Maybe even the Boston chick. You should talk to Miller about them, and then you need to shut them out of your social network.”

  “Stalker fans?” Anna says. “J Beebs gets stalkers all the time. But he’s like really famous, Reecey. Not fake famous like you.”

  “Thanks, Anna,” I say. “You have a way of keeping my life in perspective.”

  But Lisa has a point. I often get women, and sometimes men, who chime in on my social media or even send my agent notes declaring their love and undying devotion to me. There was a time when I thought I might enjoy the attention, and for a while I did. Or, as Lisa put it, their attention stroked my ego. But now it only creeps me out and, on occasion, makes me concerned for my safety and the safety of my family.

  “It’s settled, Leese,” I say. “I will shut out the bad Facebook friends.”

  “Are you staying at the house tonight?” Lisa poses. “Maybe it’s better if you stay at your studio. You don’t sound very good. I’m thinking you need a good night’s sleep.”

  “You can stay here with us, Reecey P,” Anna says. “It will be fun. We can pop some corn and drink Kool-Aid. A slumber party in Mommy’s old bedroom.”

  “I’m not sure Grandma and Grandpa would like that,” I laugh.

  “Oh yeah,” Anna says. “They hate you. They think you’re like a bum or something. And what did Grandpa Alex say? You have a history of violins. Wow, you’re a writer and a music man, Reecey P.”

  “That’s violence, honey, and you know it,
” Lisa says. “And as much as they love you, that’s where your grandparents are wrong. They’re just concerned for their daughter and granddaughter, is all.” She draws in a breath. “Daddy just went through a very bad period a long time ago, but he got some help and now he’s doing just fine. Everyone deserves a second chance in life.”

  “Yes, they do hate me,” I mouth to Anna with a smile.

  She smiles back, wide-eyed, nodding.

  “Reece,” comes the sound of Victoria’s voice from the bottom of the stairs. “Maybe it’s time Lisa got some rest.”

  “Speak of the she-devil,” I say.

  I come around the bed, lean down, and kiss Lisa on her lips. It gives my heart a start every time I kiss her. No matter how small or delicate the embrace, each kiss is an event in itself to be relished and cherished. Then I go around the other side and give Anna a huge kiss on her cheek.

  “Gross, Reecey Pieces,” she giggles.

  “I love you guys,” I say. Then, speaking directly to Anna, “You ever gonna refer to me as Dad?”

  “Love you too . . . Dad-man,” she says and grins. “That better?”

  “Much,” I say, feeling a wave of warmth travel up and down my body.

  “I don’t want you to worry about us, Reece,” Lisa insists. “Stay at your studio tonight. You’ll sleep better. In the meantime, close down your Facebook account. You, me, all of us will be glad you did.”

  I’d love to believe Lisa. That maybe the house was broken into by one of my stalker fans. But my gut tells me it’s not the truth. Whoever broke into the house and whoever killed Olga has a key to the place. That can only be one person. One thing is for certain: tomorrow, I’m having the locks changed again.

  “Consider it done,” I say. “It’ll give me something to do tonight other than worrying about you two.”

  “We managed for a lot of years without you, Reece,” Lisa says. “Anybody or anything decides to break into this impenetrable castle, my dad will slap them with his ears.”

  “Reece!” Victoria shouts out again.

  “Coming, Warden,” I shout back.

  “Nice, Reece,” Lisa says. “Way to make friends.”