The woodpile must have been forty feet long and twelve feet high. Haggerton had strapped tarps across the top of the pile, protecting it from direct weather. The wood smelled old and moldy, but not so moldy it wouldn’t burn. As I walked its length, I imagined the pile’s heyday, back when the cords of wood were freshly cut and stacked, sap dripping from their wounds. It must have been twice or even three times as big back then. It probably blocked out the damn sun.
I splashed gasoline on the woodpile’s far eastern corner. I wouldn’t have enough fuel to douse the whole thing properly, so I’d have to settle for little patches placed at intervals around the woodpile’s backside.
The can gurgled happily as I worked. Once I’d nearly emptied it, I yanked a splintered cord out of the pile and doused its knobby end. Then I looked around, considered the safety of the burn, and saw that beyond the woodpile lay only more ugly stumps stretching far into the night in all directions, like the littered battlefield of some brutal woodland war. This setup was too perfect not to burn. The old man was asking for it. Maybe he dreamt of a great fire himself, between the stretches of night terrors. I lit my makeshift torch and craned my neck back to take in the woodpile in all its sweet immensity.
“You shall be seen from the heavens, my friend.”
The world felt hushed and calm and right. The critters were hunkered in their dirt burrows, the birds nestled in their twiggy nests.
I touched off the first gasoline patch and it whoomped immediately, the fire taking nicely to the old wood. That sound, that sound. I stood still for a moment, mesmerized by the blossoming fire, until a loud crackling brought me back to the moment. I touched off the other patches of gasoline, bopping each of them like a fairy godmother with her magic fire wand, and then stuck my torch back into the pile, wedging it between two blocks of wood so it could go up with its brothers.
I could already feel the heat rising. I grabbed the gas can and backed away, careful to watch my feet among the stumps. I walked around the pile until I could see Old Man Haggerton’s house. From this side you couldn’t see anything burning yet, only an orange aura along the woodpile’s top.
I headed back, keeping to the dark as I navigated the stumps. By the time I reached the road, the fire had spread to the front of the woodpile and was catching in earnest. The firebug cavorted about in my heart as flames ate at the last patches of dark within the woodpile and the burn entered its second, all-consuming phase, illuminating Old Man Haggerton’s yard like the torch of Paul Bunyan himself.
I laughed and raised my arms in the air. I imagined I could feel the fire’s warmth and thought what a shame it’d be that I’d miss watching it burn all through the night and into the morning, until nothing but forty feet of hot coals remained.
Yes, sir. Who was the smart whore now?
The front door of Haggerton’s house flew open and the old man stepped outside, holding a deer rifle and wearing actual honest-to-god long johns. He strode off his porch slowly, approaching the burning woodpile like a man walking in a dream. I wondered if he was thinking about the loss of his property, various courses of action, or if he, like me, was flat-out stupefied by the sight of an actual wall of fire rising amid the dark of night.
Was he amazed?
In awe?
Did he, hardened lifelong bachelor asshole, still think in terms of beauty at all? Or was everything only function at this point?
I walked to my car and tossed the gas can into the Oldsmobile’s trunk. I shut the trunk softly, got into the car, and started the engine, fluttering the gas pedal slightly so the old girl wouldn’t stall on me. I rolled down my window and accelerated slowly, leaving my headlights off (I didn’t need them to see, anyway, since the fire had turned the road’s gravel a toasty shade of orange) as the Olds purred down the road.
I couldn’t see Haggerton now, even with all the lovely firelight, but I did hear a loud crack followed by something pinging off the trunk of my car. I decided to pick up the pace, potholes be damned.
Letter to the Editor
Dear Editor,
I am the firebug recently mentioned in this very paper. Yes, it is true. The firebug speaks!
I am writing to you (and to your readers) because this is America and I believe everyone should be allowed to express themselves freely, even if it is only within the pages of a banal small town rag. Many aspersions have been laid upon my metaphoric doorstep recently, some warranted, some not, and I am well aware that the court of public opinion is not well-disposed toward me at the present time.
And, while I feel no special need to defend myself or explain my actions, I do feel compelled to respond to Mayor Hedley’s recent “The Mayor’s Corner” piece. In said piece he shamed me (for I am the firebug) and urged me “to look deep inside (my) soul, which may need to be washed out with soap.”
My reply, in turn, would be to ask our beloved mayor if he truly believes it’s possible to know the soul of any man. Because I have my doubts, people. A man’s entire being is an impenetrable mask (and don’t even get me started on women), with as many layers as an enormous onion. You can peel away one, two, even twenty layers, but always another layer is waiting below the surface, hungry for its turn in the sun. Some of those layers are wicked, some noble, but most of them just want to watch TV and drink beer.
So don’t pretend to know me, Mr. Mayor. You do not. You would not know me if I walked up to you and threw a banana cream pie in your wrinkly face. I am a ghost and I will haunt this town for as long as it suits me. I am neither young nor old—I am the wind that stokes the great cosmic fire and fans the flames of freedom.
I am eternal.
I am the firebug!
The Firebug’s
Legend Grows
We were eating dinner on Tuesday evening when Grandpa and Grandma Hedley pulled into our driveway. Their white Chevy pickup had an extended cab and was comically massive, about as necessary for the two old retirees as his-and-hers matching rocket launchers. Dad hated the truck, saying it was a showy thing to drive, but I’d always appreciated old people flair and encouraged it whenever I could.
The Chevy stopped in front of our garage. Haylee turned to look out the window.
“Hey. It’s the g-rents.”
Dad pushed his chair back, already frowning. He went into the central hallway and Chompy bolted after him, barking his head off. I continued shoveling spaghetti into my mouth, trying to finish dinner before whatever was going to happen happened. The side door slammed as Dad and the beast went outside.
Haylee turned back to the table. “What do you think they want?”
I shrugged and kept chewing. I had a bad feeling about where the night was headed. My firebug senses were tingling.
“I mean, they never come over here, right? Not since the funeral.”
I nodded. Grandma Hedley had come over a few times to help sort through with Mom’s possessions, but as far as I knew Grandpa Hedley hadn’t been to our house since her death. I pushed back from the table and went to the window. Dad and Grandpa Hedley were conversing while Grandma Hedley fussed with Chompy. Grandma was smiling, so I decided their visit couldn’t be that serious.
Dad noticed us watching and waved us outside.
“I hope he’s not going to make us help rake their yard again,” Haylee said. “I had blisters for a frickin’ week.”
We went out to the driveway. Grandma Hedley hugged us both, smelling like lavender water and juniper bushes. It was warm for early October and nobody had a coat on.
“We’re going to a town meeting,” Grandpa said. “We’d like both of you to come with and see what it’s like.”
“If you’re not busy,” Grandma said.
Haylee and I looked at each other. This was a new one.
“Town meeting?”
“A special assembly,” Grandpa said. “About the deviants.”
�
�The arson, George means.”
“They know what I mean, May. The whole town has been blabbing about it.”
Everybody fell quiet. I sensed Haylee trying to come up with a way out. Chompy chased his tail and we all watched him go for it.
“Sounds fun,” I said. “Let’s check this assemblage out, sis.”
Haylee scowled and gave me a look. A minute later we were rolling with our grandparents in the monster Chevy, looking down on the leafy streets of Hickson while Grandpa complained about the lawns that needed raking and Grandma told him it was all right, it was a free country.
The town hall was a big room attached to the town library. The hall had a vaulted ceiling, a bunch of chairs lined up in neat rows, and a podium placed between two oak tables where the city council sat. As we entered the room, Grandpa Hedley peeled away from us to join the council members up front while Grandma Hedley led Haylee and me across the room, making sure everybody saw her two grandchildren by her side. We sat at the end of the front row and I made sure to get the aisle seat in case somebody broke out the pitchforks and I needed to book it. About thirty people had shown up and some actually appeared to be under the age of sixty. Who were these people? How bored did you need to get to attend a Hickson town meeting?
The city council members took their seats. Grandpa Hedley stepped behind the podium.
“Good evening, everyone. Thank you for coming.”
The room rustled and somebody coughed. Haylee fiddled with her cell phone beside me, texting some numb-nuts.
“I called this meeting because I wanted to brief everyone about the arsonists that’ve been terrorizing our county.”
The firebug went pitty-pat inside my chest.
Terrorizing?
Really?
“There have been three known incidents to date. First, as many of you already know, Teddy Giles’ boathouse house burned down two weeks ago.”
The crowd murmured. Poor Teddy.
“Second, last Wednesday night there was an elaborately staged fire behind the grocery store in what appeared to be a Satanic-type ritual.”
More murmuring from the crowd while I snorted and bowed my head.
“Thirdly, late this past Saturday evening, someone torched the big woodpile behind Ox Haggerton’s place.”
No murmuring this time—Old Man Haggerton could go fuck himself.
“In all three incidents, the investigator determined the fires were started with automotive gasoline using the same sloppy, amateurish method at each scene.”
I leaned forward. Sloppy? Amateurish? What the hell was he talking about? Each one of those fires had been set up with love and precision! Sure, perhaps I’d used more burn juice than was strictly necessary—
Ahhhh. The sly old soldier was trying to poke the hornet’s nest. He thought the firebug might be right here, at the meeting, and he reckoned that anybody who’d stage something like Hickhenge would likely be a perfectionist.
Very tricky, old man.
Very tricky.
Grandpa Hedley set his hands on the podium and leaned toward the audience.
“You know, I knew some firebugs in Vietnam. They were real gung-ho fellas, always ready to jump out from the sandbags and let’er rip. They loved big fires and big explosions and seeing the sky light up in the middle of the night. They lived for that kind of thing, I suppose you could say.”
The Mayor covered his mouth with his fist and cleared his throat.
“As far as I recall, most of those firebugs ended up coming home in a body bag. That is, if there was a body left to ship home at all. Sooner or later, no matter how fast they were, or how much firepower they carried, they ended up making one little mistake and getting blown to hell.”
The Mayor paused. Nobody rustled. Haylee had stopped texting and was watching our grandfather like she’d never seen him before.
Maybe she hadn’t.
“All right then. I just wanted you all to know that we’re taking the arsonist seriously. We’ve approved temporary overtime for additional police patrols and are asking for volunteers for a neighborhood watch. Hickson has never need a neighborhood watch before, but I suppose times are changing. If you’re interested in joining the watch, please let Patty Saunders know. She’s got a sign-up sheet with her tonight and would love to get as many names down as she can. You can choose to volunteer twenty hours a week or one hour, it’s up to you. Otherwise, please let me or Sheriff Tillman’s office know if you see anything suspicious. Thank you and have a good night.”
The Mayor picked up his notepad and stepped away from the podium. Somebody started clapping in the back of the hall and soon everyone joined in, even Haylee, even me. I clapped and clapped and clapped, a goofy grin spreading across my face. If my grandfather wanted one more battle, who was I to deny the old soldier?
I noticed Haylee had turned to give me another look. The crowd had dispersed, but I was still clapping.
A Country Drive
The drought continued into the second week of October. The skies remained clear and blue and the county turned various shades of rust. Burn permits were denied, fallen leaves piled up in desiccated mounds, and honking Canadian geese passed through town on their way south for the winter. The temperature fluctuated daily, warming to as high as eighty degrees and dipping to thirty-five. The lack of rain appeared to have thrown Mother Nature for a loop. She knew winter was on the horizon, one way or another, but she could only stagger toward it while the birds and squirrels hunkered down, trying their damndest to remember their training.
On a warm Monday I decided to take a new path home from the hardware store, circling back through the east side of town. Though it’d always been cool to rag on the “nice” part of Hickson, all us west-side kids had secretly envied the east-side kids and their well-kept two-story Victorians, with their tastefully used Volvos and BMWs parked in the drive and their handsome fathers out puttering in the yard on weekends, wearing faded college T-shirts or cardigan sweaters, their attractive mothers carrying out trays of lemonade and brownies to anybody who happened to be around—even you, a west-side kid so bored out of your skull you’re willing to hang out with an east-side kid.
Today, the east side sparkled under a high blue sky. The air smelled dry and good. I walked from street to street, aimlessly wandering as my heart squeezed in my chest, filled with wistful October sentimentality. I picked up a twig and gnawed on it. It tasted like wood and earth and soil. I stepped into the gutter and kicked a heavy blanket of fallen leaves, enjoying the satisfying crunch.
“Nice. You’re kicking the shit out of those leaves.”
I looked up. It was the pale girl. Katrina. She was lying out in the front yard of an enormous brown house and I hadn’t even noticed her. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail and in the full, glowing light of day she was so pretty that I had trouble looking directly at her. I looked down and gave an extravagant, NFL placekicker–style kick that really sent the leafy motherfuckers flying.
“Whoa, buddy. What did they ever do to you?”
“I take my pleasures where I can.”
“Oh yeah?”
Katrina sat forward, lowering an open textbook across her lap as she studied me. Taking this as an invitation, I stepped out of the gutter and walked onto her lawn, trying to seem as confidant and non-idiotic as possible. I knew I was a tall, gawky high school dude with untamable hair, but maybe she was into that type of guy.
I looked past her at the big brown house. It was ugly as hell.
“You live in Hickson?”
“Yeah,” Katrina said. “This year, anyhow. I thought it’d be cool to get off-campus and live like, you know, a regular human being.”
“So basically you’re here for the cheap rent.”
“Pretty much.”
I hooked my thumbs into my pockets and squinted up at the sky. Somebody in th
e neighborhood was going at it with a leaf blower.
“What do you think so far?”
“Of Hickson?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’d say it’s astonishingly dull so far. Astonishingly.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “We’ve got that down pat.”
Katrina closed her textbook. Environmental Philosophy. It had a desperate-looking polar bear on the cover, swimming in the ocean with no chunks of ice in sight.
“You feel like going for a drive?”
“Okay,” I said. “As long as you don’t take advantage of me.”
Katrina laughed. She swung her pale legs out of the Adirondack chair and leapt to her feet, slipping on a pair of flip-flops laid out in the grass.
“I can’t make that sort of promise, Mack-Attack.”
We took Katrina’s car. She drove recklessly and it gave me an enormous erection with every screeching turn in the road. She had a black VW Bug with skull-and-crossbones decals slapped on the doors. Her brothers were both gearheads, she shouted above the windy roar pouring in through the car’s open windows, and they’d given the Bug “serious fucking balls,” which meant we were able to get up to a hundred miles an hour on the straight stretches of highway, the car rattling around us like a space capsule reentering the earth’s atmosphere.
“What about deer?” I hollered, shifting in my seat as I tried to hide, or at least alleviate, my hard-on.
“Deer can’t go this fast,” Katrina hollered back.
I sat back and enjoyed the wind as it pummeled my body and forced tears into my eyes. Hickson kids liked to tool around the local highways but I’d never seen anybody haul ass like this, much less while wearing flip-flops and black toenail polish and smoking Camel Blues.
A lumber truck appeared up ahead in our lane. Katrina screamed and jammed the gas pedal to the floor. Somehow the Bug gained even more steam, rattling cataclysmically, and we passed the lumber truck as if it were a woolly mammoth or some other dumpy prehistoric creature.
The Firebug of Balrog County Page 7