by Brian Hodge
“Yeah, what the hell’s going on here?” I tried to sound a little bit pissed, so they didn’t think they could push me around. A shorter, uglier cop came out of my house, followed by a couple of men in yellow fire coats and hats. One of them gave the old cop the thumbs up.
“You had a fire, sir, a very suspicious fire. Can you tell us anything about what happened here?”
“Why? You think I set my own house on fire?”
“No, of course not.” The ugly cop looked around knowingly. “Where have you been all afternoon?”
“I was at work until three, and then I went to the zoo.” The zoo closed at six o’clock. It was quarter after nine. The only person who could have alibied me was the girl I’d been with, and I knew I shouldn’t tell the cops about that.
“You went to the zoo by yourself?” It did sound kind of stupid when I heard someone else say it. “The zoo closes at five, doesn’t it?” The cop took out a small notepad and flipped it open. He was totally out to get me; I could tell. These cops think they’re so fucking smart.
“They close at six, but they know me there so they let me hang out.” It was a smallish lie, no big deal.
“Good, good.” The cop nodded, still writing, “Who should I verify that with?”
“What?”
“Who were you with at the zoo after closing?”
“Oh … uh … I was looking at the Komodo dragons. I love those!” I stared at the ground. They don’t know you’re lying if they can’t see your eyes. Everyone knows that.
“That’s the really big lizard with all the germs, right?”
“Yes!” I told him, pleased that he seemed to believe me. It looked as if he were going to turn away and leave when another fireman came out of the house, carrying something that looked like … it looked like a person, in a bag. A body bag. I racked my brain to make sure I hadn’t left anything in the house. But no one was there. I’d made sure of it.
“Does anyone live here with you?” the cop asked. He seemed not to notice that a man had just walked by with a body in a bag.
“No, I’m divorced. My girlfriend is here sometimes.” Elise didn’t stay over; she was almost never here. I wanted them to know I had a woman. They prolly thought I was some kind of loser.
When the old-man cop turned to walk back to me, he was holding a familiar-looking handbag. I couldn’t quite say where I’d seen it before, but I knew I had. The sight of it gave me a sinking, sick feeling that made me want to throw up.
“Mister Goretti, do you know a Dama—Damayanni—” While he struggled with her name, I struggled to stand, and failed. I fell back against my piece-of-shit car and felt it bounce beside me. I doubled over, waiting to vomit, but nothing came, not even the cheeseburger I’d had on the way home. Finally, I nodded at the cop and tried to straighten up.
“She’s my wife.” I couldn’t imagine why Dami would have been in my home. Was she stealing shit? Maybe she was there to take the computer for the girls. I would’ve given it to her if she’d asked. I always ended up giving her everything she asked for; she didn’t have to take it, and she certainly didn’t have to light my house on fire. Goddamn gook cunt. I knew you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, especially the recently dead. But what else could she have wanted to take from me?
Chapter Forty-One
(Chandra)
Sorrow’s Aftermath
Mother wasn’t in the house when Durga and I came home from the library. I used the time to shower and change clothes. We waited for hours. She couldn’t be at the school; no one was there this time of night. Finally, we decided to have dinner without her. I can’t remember ever doing that before. I was slicing vegetables and cooking rice when someone knocked on the door. I looked through the peephole, which revealed the image of a short policeman with an angry, pinched face.
“Is this the residence of Damma—of Mrs. Goretti?”
“Yes,” I told him, thinking again of how much I hated The Villain’s name being attached to my mother. It wouldn’t be for much longer.
“And you are?” He sounded completely casual and maybe a bit annoyed. My hands suddenly went numb, and my forehead cold. What was wrong with me?
“I’m her daughter, Chandra. Do you know where my mother is?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but she was killed in a fire.” I gasped audibly and let out a small scream. Durga came running from the kitchen, where she had taken over the vegetable chopping.
“What is it? Where’s Mother?” She nearly screamed. The pinched-faced cop went on talking, as if there weren’t two young crying girls in his midst.
“A fire was set at the home of Michael Goretti, and she was located upstairs. It appears she passed out from smoke inhalation and suffocated to death.”
“Suffocated … to death?” That seemed like an odd way to phrase what had happened. He was probably about to arrest me. Durga would be sent to a foster home! She might even be sent to that awful “Granny,” who’d cut us with rice and called us sinners. Any horrible thing in the world could happen to Durga without me.
“We need someone to identify the body. How old are you?” I told him, and he asked if there were an older relative who could come downtown. I gave him our grandmother’s phone number, and hoped she would answer this late. Our grandmother was sometimes afraid to answer the phone after dark. I hoped when he called Grandmother, this runty cop would refrain from calling our mother “the body.”
The cop didn’t ask if we were alright, or if we had anyone to stay with. He didn’t ask if we wanted to talk to anyone, or if he could help at all. Pretty much what I expected from the police.
He went away, presumably to get Mother’s body identified. I was not at all sure why such a thing needed to happen. They obviously knew who she was, or they wouldn’t have come here. They would be back, as soon as one of them paid attention to the fact that we were both underage. They might even be back tonight to take us out of here and separate us. We had to run, and run now.
“Durga!” I yelled for her, even though she was right next to me, “Pack a bag. Get your suitcase out and put in a week’s worth of your best clothes, the ones you’ll want to keep. Get an extra pair of shoes, extra socks, and all the money you have.” I ran to the bedroom to pack my own things, but Durga just stood there looking at me. Arms akimbo.
“C’mon, what are you doing? We’ve got to get out of here. With Mother gone, they’re going to want to put us in separate foster homes. They may even want to—” I almost said “arrest me,” but there was no reason to tell Durga that. She didn’t need to know my role in this. It was an accident, an ACCIDENT! How was I to know Mother would be in the house? What was she even doing there? I couldn’t possibly have been expected to know such a thing. Yes, I went there, and I went there with the intention of hurting someone. But not our dear Mother … never Mother!
“What did you do when you left the library?” Durga stood in front of me, unmovable.
“What do you mean?” I asked her, knowing full well what she meant and why she was asking. Didn’t she see that it was better for her not to know?
“I mean when you left the library and came back SMELLING LIKE SMOKE!” She was screaming now, her eyes reddened, tears running down her face. All my fault. All my fault my sister had to deal with such pain. Well, not all my fault. It was Mother who brought The Villain into our lives in the first place. I couldn’t be blamed for that. Nor was it my doing that Goretti stalked us and made us afraid all the time. He did that and he deserved whatever he got. I could only assume he was dead too, even though the cop didn’t say anything to that effect. There was no reason to tell us that; we weren’t related to him. But he must be dead. He must be. He must have kept our mother in that house. He as good as killed her. I hadn’t thought it possible, but I hated The Villain more intensely than ever.
I took a few deep breaths. Durga was my sister. She would never betray me, no matter what I’d done. Your family stands by you, trusts you, no matter what. It would be an insul
t to that trust not to tell her everything.
“Okay. I went to Goretti’s house. I set a fire in the living room and ran out. I heard him upstairs walking around and I left him there to die. I just didn’t want him to bother us anymore. That day you came home from school all—”
“Don’t you dare blame any of this on me,” her voice was quiet and calm now. “I hated him, but I never told you to commit murder. Mother is dead. Dead, Chandra. And it’s your fault. We can’t go anywhere just yet. The antyeshti.” I had no idea who in this state might perform a ritual cremation. Durga was right, though, Mother would have wanted it. “For now, we’ll go to Grandmother’s.”
Durga passed me in the hallway and began throwing items into the green paisley suitcase we shared. When I moved to put something of my own inside, Durga snatched it away, spilling its contents on the bed.
“What are you doing?” I asked through tears.
“You can use Mother’s suitcase. She doesn’t need it now.” As soon as she said it, the idea filled me with dread and horror. “We don’t have Mother’s car; we’ll have to call a taxi.” Somehow Durga was more in control of the situation than I was. I just wanted to be sick. Instead, I had to pack us both up and get us to Grandmother’s before the police came back.
I vaguely thought I should call Thomas and tell him where I was going or even that I was leaving at all. It was probably better that he didn’t know anything, and there was no promise that he’d care.
“I meant what I said before,” Durga told me, as the taxi sped us away. “I don’t ever want to hear you say you did this for me.” But I did, I wanted to shout back at her. I kept quiet. I sat on that bus, planning revenge against The Villain who murdered Mother.
Chapter Forty-Two
(Mikey)
Tallying the Damages
Aside from the living room, and a bit of a mess upstairs, most of the damage from the fire was what they call smoke damage. Basically, everything was black and filthy and needed a good scrubbing down. Of course, Elise offered to come over and help. I totally wanted to let her do that, but I had cleaning to do before I could even let her come over to clean, if that made sense. I had to make sure the coast was clear, as it were.
I never realized that when there was a crime or something, the people whose house it was got stuck cleaning it up. I guess most people call a maid service because cleaning up blood or whatever is too weird. Myself, I was pretty okay with it, the couple of times I’d been faced with such a thing.
Dami had died in the sitting room. I always thought it was just a spare bedroom, but she was the one who called it a sitting room. Apparently, the girls were supposed to receive gentlemen callers there in a safe environment where they wouldn’t be left alone with a bed in the room.
It was sad to think of her there, small and frail as Dami was. Such a beautiful lady; so cold and evil inside. Imagine her, coming to burn my house down. There was no other explanation, although I couldn’t think of why she’d go upstairs after setting my living room on fire. She must have known she could get trapped up there. Was she trying to kill herself? I didn’t see how that was possible; she’d had children to raise, after all. Dami had once said that people with children no longer have the right to take their own lives. She did this just to make me look bad; I knew it.
I was coming down the stairs with a box of girls’ clothing when my doorbell tried to ring. It must have been damaged in the fire because it sounded feeble and scratchy. I answered it, a bit shocked to see Elise standing there carrying a casserole, a mop and a bucket.
“I thought maybe you could use my help,” she told me cheerfully, knowing damn well I’d told her I needed to clean up first. Fuckin’ women. “I brought us dinner. Cheeseburger pie!”
I’d never heard of putting cheeseburgers into a pie. Elise was a pretty good cook, so I decided not to complain. She’d probably do a lot of this cleaning work too. I led her to the sofa that didn’t get burned up in the fire, right across from the one that did. Weird how things happen like that in fires.
“Cool, thanks.” I put the box of girls’ clothes on the unburned sofa next to her, knowing that if I was casual about it, she wouldn’t notice what was in the box. I got kind of nervous, picked it up again, and started to take it out of the room. In that instant, I realized just how damaging the box could be.
“What’s in there? Storage?” she asked me, as if she could read my mind. I hated it. I almost wanted to hit her when she did that, but I’d never actually hit a woman with my fist. That shit is wrong.
“Yeah, storage.” She stood up as if to help me with it, and I jerked it out of her hands. Her eyes opened really big, and she looked all weepy and hurt. It wasn’t an attractive look, I gotta say.
“If it’s just storage, why can’t I see what’s in it?” She said it like she might be joking, but I wasn’t sure.
“You can.” I practically threw the box at her; she took it with a whiny expression on her face.
“I was only joking; no need to get riled.”
“I’m not getting riled, I just don’t like chicks snooping around in my stuff.” I knew getting mad was making me look suspicious, but I couldn’t stop myself. Why did she have to be such a pain in the ass? She set the box down and opened it, shooting me a strange look as she did.
She’s starting to do it. The corner of the room is getting Red. I see it.
“This is all just clothes. Girl clothes.” She held up the slinky top from the heathen hooker. “Why do you have this?”
“They’re … from my ex-wife and the girls. They left a lot behind when they abandoned me.”
Elise continued to hold up the lurid item, no doubt waiting for me to explain why a religious woman like Dami would let her daughter wear hooker clothes. I was as good as dumped.
“Your ex-wife’s girls wore this?” she asked suspiciously, pulling out a pair of jeans far too small even for Durga to wear. They were purple corduroy and brought back fond memories for me. “A high school girl left her teeny tiny jeans behind, you say?”
I didn’t know how to get myself out of this situation. It felt like the time Mama found my magazines and sprayed me outside with the garden hose to clean my wicked body and soul. I had no idea what Elise would want from me, me who’d just lost my ex-wife and was clearly still grieving.
“You’re a pedophile?” She said it all shocked, like she already believed it. And for a second I found myself wondering exactly what would be in the cheeseburger pie.
“How could you ask me—” When I looked from her face to the tiny jeans, which had belonged to a girl who was now lying in a field in someone else’s dress, next to some bus tokens, I couldn’t think of a single way out of this. “How could you think such a thing of me?”
“It’s a yes or no question, and requires a yes or no answer.” She looked at me more intently than anyone ever had, almost pleading with me for the right answer. “Are you a pedophile?”
“I’m not gonna dignify that with an answer,” I told her, thinking it would be the end of this nightmare.
“Why not?” she fired back. “Anyone else would have just said no.”
“Oh they would, would they? And just how do you know that?” I could turn this around on her, make her sorry she’d ever brought it up. She wasn’t going to get me in trouble.
My fiancée stood and was putting on her sweater, even though it wasn’t cold in here. She picked up her casserole and headed for the front door. I suppose that should have made me sad, but it was a relief. Now I didn’t have anyone to answer to, well, except Fran. But she would never pop by my place. Truth is, I think Fran was afraid of me.
I watched my woman walking out the door with the uneaten, but surely delicious, casserole. Damn, I really wanted to try that.
Chapter Forty-Three
(Elise)
What You Don’t Know …
I’ve never been a very good judge of character when it comes to men. In hindsight, any idiot should have been able to see
something was amiss with Mike from the beginning. Everyone says that after a breakup. We chide ourselves and insist that if only we’d kept our eyes open, we could have saved ourselves time and heartache. It’s never morally wrong to give a person the benefit of the doubt, I think.
The day after the breakup, Sondra took me out to lunch. We called Dami to join us, but she hadn’t returned my calls in nearly a week. I wasn’t really in the mood to discuss my boyfriend troubles, but Sondra was the sort of person who wasn’t about to let that influence her. If she thought I should talk about something, we would. Sondra was a woman of many “shoulds,” and if you ask me, they crippled her.
“Tiny little pants? What do you mean; how tiny? Like doll pants?” Sondra looked back and forth between me and her salad.
“No, not like doll pants! Why would I have left him over a pair of doll pants?” I was getting annoyed with her. I didn’t even want to talk about this in the first place—doll pants!
“Okay, okay, I was just asking.” She took another enormous bite of romaine dripping with lo-cal french. “You should relax a little bit, hon.”
“They were little girl’s pants. Little. Like too little to belong to one of his ex’s kids. He told me they were both of high school age. These were from a younger girl, I’m sure of it. Besides, if you’d seen his face when I asked him about it, you wouldn’t have doubted it. Something is wrong with him; I’m just not sure what.”
“Do you think he’s one of those … you know? You should find out.” There were some phrases Sondra thought were too ugly to utter, her suspicions about my former boyfriend being one of them.
“A pedophile? I asked him; he says no.”
“Well, what’s he going to say? Yes I’m totally a pedophile; let’s go see a movie? C’mon, Elise, even HE isn’t that stupid. You should—”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I never said he was stupid.” She wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb herself.