Burning September

by Melissa Simonson

  Some people are chimps, some people are spears, I thought, remembering Caroline’s logic. How could anyone fault her for being that way? She’d been born to absent parents, something she couldn’t control. That hadn’t been fair. Neither had obligatory motherhood at eighteen. Who could cast judgement on her for using the tools she had in her arsenal, when they were so limited to start with?

  I watched him, watching me over the rim of his coffee mug. “What’s your dog’s name?”

  His nostrils flared over a deepening smile. “Jax. He’s a good boy. Best friend I could have ever asked for. I could do without all the hair, though. Collies shed like you wouldn’t believe.”

  ***

  My pencil moved across the roll of sketching paper as if working of its own accord. I didn’t know what I’d intended to draw when I sat down in a pool of sunlight to do it, but what I’d ended up with was a masquerade ball mask set atop pile of scrubs, tarot cards scattered here and there, the evil eye big as the sun set high above the rest casting dark, sinister shadows over bits of broken bottles of alcohol, mint leaves clinging to the shards. A fitting clusterfuck, I thought, crossing my legs beneath me on the floor of Professor Rasmussen’s empty classroom. A jumble of clashing ideas that made no sense paired together.

  Nobody but Caroline would have understood what it all meant, what it really was—a rant slash vent. Maybe I should take a photo of it, send it to her email. You’ve got so much downtime in that place, why don’t you stop to consider this, what the mess you left behind looks like. Ostensibly pretty but so twisted and fucked up when you really took it in, broke it up piece by piece.

  I bit into my thumbnail, twirling the pencil between my fingers, and didn’t bother looking up when someone pushed the door open and descended the staircase. I had a good feeling I knew who it was, anyway.

  The thud I heard behind me had to be his backpack hitting the floor, and after three slow steps, he crouched beside me.

  Jeff’s finger traced the contours of the evil eye. “What’s this?”

  “A nazar. The evil eye.” It looked every bit its name, lidless and childlike in its crudeness, an oversized pupil which contained three more eyes like Russian nesting dolls.

  “Sounds ominous.”

  “It’s not. Not always. People wear charms like this, necklaces, bracelets. It protects the wearer from the evil thoughts of others. It’s only ominous to you if you harbor ill will against me.”

  “Guess I’m safe, then.” He sat, leaning back on his hands. “How long have you been waiting here?”

  I glanced up at the clock on the wall. “About an hour.”

  “If I’d have known I could have come to keep you company.” His gaze darted over the sketch, from left to right and back again. “If this isn’t some random thing you drew to waste time, you should consider submitting it to my magazine. You’d have to finish it first, paint it, use oils, whatever. The circulation has gone up since last year, I’m still trying to figure out the best way to draw more attention. Professor Rasmussen’s helped me out a lot with it. I don’t know where I’d be without her.”

  Professor Rasmussen, patron saint of broke fledgling artists. Always swooping in to save the day. How did she have the energy? I had a hard time believing she did it all out of the kindness of her heart, but maybe I just hadn’t met many genuinely nice people. I still couldn’t even work out how she kept her clothes so pristine when she worked elbows-deep in art supplies most days.

  “How can she find the time to help with something like that when she has a full schedule of classes nine months out of the year?”

  He leaned forward and blew lead residue off the sketch. “I told her about it last year, after I first started it. She looked at the first few issues, liked what she saw. She couldn’t do a whole lot in the way of being some type of advisor, but she gave me a good chunk of start-up money. She’s a lifesaver.”

  A stuttering light bulb of aha! flicked on over my head. Dust motes sparkled, swirling through the stream of sunshine slanting through the windows, and I had to think that maybe Caroline was right: I always had been slow to connect dots. And it was right then that I knew—should have known—who had been funding Kyle’s retainer. Who’d rushed in and helped Caroline gain custody of me all those years ago? Professor Rasmussen had given me the opportunity to work for her as a lowly freshman all because Caroline, her all-time favorite student, had asked. She had the money to throw around on art magazines; surely she had enough to blow on a criminal defense, especially taking her expensive clothes into account.

  I had a feeling the term lifesaver could be applied in every sense of the word. As in saving my sister from a life sentence most people would claim she thoroughly deserved by buying some high-powered criminal attorney.

  Would anyone quit lying right to my face? Maybe Professor Rasmussen hadn’t given Caroline the money in her bank account, but she’d certainly made a huge financial contribution to this whole debacle. I felt blood rush to my head, one second away from turning into a giant whistling teapot with steam pouring out my ears.

  Asking her point-blank whether she’d done what I suspected seemed useless. I didn’t want to hear any more excuses why people hadn’t bothered cluing me in. If they wanted me blind to the goings-on, then I could play that role.

  “Is it a print magazine, or just online?” I heard myself ask in a steady voice I didn’t feel capable of using.

  “Both, but the print magazine has more pieces and articles. Are you thinking water-based paints or oil with this?”

  “Oil. So I can order or buy a copy if you published this piece?”

  He squinted at the drawing and nodded. “Of course. And oil would definitely work best. I’ll get you some cardboard for transport. You wouldn’t want this getting wrinkled.”

  The evil eye swam, bleeding into smoke as my vision glazed over. I looked away, over to Jeff’s expectant face. It seemed like he needed an affirmative answer, so I gave him one, along with a half-assed smile. “Okay. I’ll give it to you as soon as I’ve finished it, then.”

  “Awesome.” He shot me a lopsided smile, adjusting the fingerprint smudged glasses on his nose. “Caroline’s talent must run in the family.”

  He was lucky I had none of Caroline’s talents. There were no rocks at my feet for him to crash and burn on.

  DECEMBER

  December rolled in loud as thunder during a spat of heavy rainstorms, and the only times I’d seen Kyle lately were when he appeared on my television speaking into a microphone some pushy reporter had shoved in his face, denying any and all allegations leveled against Caroline. I hadn’t the foggiest idea how his visit with her had gone from his perspective, but Caroline had been optimistic in the extreme.

  There’s no physical evidence, you know, she’d said, and I’d hated that cocktail of confidence and pride laced through her voice. The chick Brian was dating at the time had told more than a few people she thought he’d been cheating on her. She could have done it. A prosecutor would have to admit it’s possible, at the very least.

  Unless they ask me, I’d wanted to retort to her voicemail. I’m the proof of your guilt. But it went without saying I would lie for her. I’d already done it in the dozens of interrogations I’d gone through back in September, played my demurely stupid role accordingly. I hadn’t confronted Caroline about Professor Rasmussen paying her legal fees, nor had I brought it up to the professor herself. I did, however, purchase a copy of Jeff’s magazine and mail it off to my sister at Breakthrough, and it was on a wet and windy night mid-December when I received her response via email.

  Dearest Queen of Subtly,

  Bravo. You can’t see me, but I’m doing a slow-clap in your honor.

  Kat, I’m not sure what you’re trying to say with this, but I applaud your effort, and the fact that you’re finally using the tools I’ve given you. And also that you’re probably channeling Van Gogh. You put your life and soul into your work and lost your mind in the process.

&nb
sp; However irritated you are with me, I want you to know I miss you, and that I’d like to see you whenever you can fit your lunatic sister into your oh-so-packed schedule. You can’t hear me, but I said schedule the snotty English way.

  I’m having something delivered to you within the next few days. It may seem like I’m trying to buy your affection, which is partly true, but it’s also because I’m worried about your stress levels and I feel like a douche for what happened the last time you visited. I hope you know I said everything out of surprise and anger. None of it was true.

  I guess we had our first real fight, huh?

  Love you, kitty.

  If Van Gogh had had a sister like Caroline, I theorized he’d have died without both ears securely attached to his head.

  I wondered what her surprise would turn into, this attempt to win me back. She’d always been an expert at apologies, blurring lines, pulling white rabbits out of hats.

  ***

  Christmas has never been a holiday Caroline or I bought much into. Santa Claus hadn’t held a lot of appeal back when I may have believed in him because my drunken father had let slip the night of Christmas Eve that he wasn’t real, an offense for which Caroline had never forgiven him. One more crime to add to his ever-growing list, as far as she’d been concerned. It’s cruel to tell a six-year-old girl such a thing, I remember her yelling at him as she poured all his vodka down the drain in the kitchen.

  I still liked watching the Christmas lights though, and was doing so that Christmas Eve from the living room window, imagining all the little kids who would actually be excited to go to bed early this evening, never realizing it was their parents assembling those pain in the ass bikes and Barbie Dream Houses, not Santa himself.

  Rain streaked down the window, blazing clean trails through accumulated muck and grime. The ticking of the clocks in the kitchen had begun to wear on me, but I didn’t feel like hunting down a stepstool to rip their batteries out.

  I’d been staring off into space for so long all thinking seemed to cease, and I may have sat there all night if it hadn’t been for the quiet moans coming from outside.

  It blended into the ticking at first, morphed into the backbeat of twelve noisy clocks, until I realized it had gotten louder. Closer to the window I sat beside, not floating from the kitchen, though nothing stirred behind the glass, just sheet after sheet of relentless rain.

  I flung the front door open after a few cautious steps, but nothing skulked on the shabby welcome mat or wailed from the street. Nothing at all out of the ordinary, until a dark shape slithered out of the shrubs in between condos. I swallowed the shriek building in my throat when the shadow took the form of nothing more sinister than a small cat. Water clung to its black fur as it slunk into the pool of light spilling over the welcome mat, and I dropped to my knees, holding out a hand.

  Caroline wasn’t an animal person, so I didn’t know if I could include myself in that class—I hadn’t really been exposed to them. I did, however, know that if a cat didn’t have a collar, it generally meant it was a stray, but would a stray bash its furry face in my palm with so much vigor? An animal whisperer I was not, but I found myself asking it stupid nonsense questions anyway. He didn’t tell me his name, who his mommy was, where he’d come from, but he did flop onto the welcome mat as though he owned it and gave me a front row ticket to bath time. Which let me know with sudden, chill clarity that he was a boy.

  I sat back on my heels, chin in hand. Caroline would have rolled her eyes, slammed the door on this little guy, citing fleas and ticks and rabies, but she didn’t get a say this time.

  He blinked jade eyes up at me as I ushered him into the warmth, and it was with a mildly curious gaze that he watched me hunt down a towel, bowls, and a mound of blankets. After a pat down that left him very offended, he sniffed at my offering of shredded chicken, declined, deigned the water suitable, and then decided to take a nap.

  If that was all cats were good for, I wondered if maybe Caroline had had a point, though he was pleasant enough to sit by, more so when his soft, sleepy purrs revved up.

  I scratched his cheeks and ran my hand down the curve of his back, discreetly checking for fleas. None. When I stopped petting him, he threw me a dirty look and unfurled his sandpaper tongue, scrubbing the patch of fur I’d touched.

  I doubted pets were allowed in the complex, but nobody bothered following rules in this dump, so I decided I’d let him stay, if he’d have me. I’d open the door whenever he wished and secretly steel myself for the day he wouldn’t come back.

  A loud knock at the door startled me out of a whirlpool of possible cat names, but my unnamed friend remained aloof as I got to my feet and opened the door.

  “Hey, stranger,” Kyle said from my welcome mat, holding a brown paper bag.

  I choked back my surprise. “I’ve been here all this time. You’re the busy one.”

  He brushed past me, shrugging out of his coat. “Sorry about that. Work’s been hectic.”

  “What are you doing here? It’s Christmas Eve.”

  “You forget I’m an orphan too,” he said, not sounding the least bit sad about it. “No houses to visit and scrounge food from. Holidays are always pretty solitary. I figured it’d be the same for you.” He stopped suddenly, having been poised to toss his coat on the window seat where the cat had made his camp.

  Kyle turned blue eyes on me, coat hanging loose in his grip. “When did you get a cat?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago. He was crying outside the window.” I pointed at the bowl of chicken. “He hasn’t thought much of his Christmas dinner, though.”

  “Cats are elitists.” He ran his hand over the cat’s back. “He’s soft. Doesn’t look like a stray.”

  “There’s no collar,” I said defensively.

  His smile was a little too knowing for my liking. “I didn’t say you’d have to give him back. Just noting it down.” He set the brown bag on the carpet, and I shot it a wary glance.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Something vaguely Christmasy I found in a liquor store.”

  “Is there a reason you keep trying to get me drunk?”

  “Oh, come on. You did half the job yourself the first time.” He unsheathed a bottle of amber liquid sloshing behind a red label bearing the word FIREBALL. “Mixed reviews about this one. I’ve heard some people say it’s nectar from the gods and others call it a cinnamon flavored memory eraser. Hard to tell if that’s an endorsement or a warning.”

  My guess would be neither.

  “You want to get some glasses?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Not really, after hearing what people think about it.”

  My objections bounced right off of him, and I imagined he was the same way in court. “They’re just opinions. Everyone’s got one.”

  I headed for the kitchen, calling over my shoulder. “I don’t have any shot glasses. Caroline didn’t drink much, but she’d have never bought shot glasses. She thinks shots are tacky. Best I can do is a couple of mason jars.”

  I settled on the floor next to him after collecting the jars, watching as he doled out healthy measures of the alcohol, which smelled lethally of cinnamon, and reluctantly clinked glasses with him before a tentative sip. The path of fire it sent weaving down my throat and into my stomach had me fighting back a grimace, though I couldn’t help a shudder.

  “Hmm.” Kyle stared into his remaining inch of Fireball with a thoughtful expression, running his tongue over his gums. “What do you think?”

  I wrinkled my nose to keep from sneezing. “I think I need some water.”

  “Amateur.”

  I lunged for the open water bottle on the coffee table beside the tarot deck. “I don’t have as much experience at drinking as you do.” The aftertaste wasn’t bad, though, that tingling it left on my tongue.

  “Touché. How’ve you been?”

  “Are you gonna tell me what happened when you talked to Caroline?”

  He swallowe
d another mouthful of liquid fire, keeping his eyes on the floor as he swirled the remaining contents in the mason jar. “She didn’t tell you already?”

  “Sure. She left a voicemail, told me her side.”

  “There’s no sides. The only side I’m on is hers.”

  “Did you like her?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled down at the carpet like I’d cracked a joke. “I liked her, and when I left, I had to shake my head and wonder what the hell happened.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means the whole time I spoke with her she had me pretty well convinced she was some baby bird with a broken wing. Didn’t deny loathing Brian, but didn’t admit to the fire. I knew what to expect going in; I was just surprised by how much I bought into all the smoke and mirrors, sitting across from her. Complete bullshit, all of it really, but she had me going until I walked out the door. At least I know now she’ll present well to a jury, should it come down to that. She reminded me of you, kind of. An extremely over-animated you.”

  I let my gaze wander over to the cat, wondering how he could purr while sleeping. I’d never heard such a contented sound in all my life. “She sounded confident. In her voicemail.”

  “I’m not surprised. She told me you haven’t been to see her in a while, though. What’s that about?”

  “I guess I just haven’t been in the mood to hear any more of her bullshit rationales. She said some things last time I saw her. Got really pissed off at me.” I shrugged one half-hearted shoulder. “I think I need a break from her, is all. It’s been exhausting visiting her, listening to her. Telling me what to do and then to mind my own business.”

  The bottle chattered on the rim of my empty glass as he poured us both another dose. “I don’t really know what to tell you. She’d be hard to trust after all this, but then she’s the only family you’ve got, so I’d be hesitant to cut her off, if I were you.”