Burning September

by Melissa Simonson

  I stood in a daze. I didn’t even realize I’d made my way toward the door until Caroline’s voice penetrated the fog. A lot like the sirens did with their singing, I thought dully, their songs slicing through ocean mist to lure some schmuck to their death. I refused to crash and burn on those rocks. Her tricks wouldn’t work on me anymore.

  “When are you coming back?”

  I paused in the threshold of her bedroom. “I don’t know.”

  “Kat—” she started, rising off the mattress, but I’d already left.

  ***

  I made my way home on autopilot and was mildly surprised to suddenly find myself trudging up the walkway to my condo. Nicholas’s expectant face didn’t roust me from my trance, and as if I knew what I’d planned to do all along, I made a beeline for the mantel, where both my parent’s remains sat, silent witnesses to everything that transpired in the living room, collecting dust.

  I’m not sure what I expected, after I’d lifted the lid of my father’s urn. Maybe that he’d pop out like a genie, tell me with crystalline certainty what had happened to him and why, give me a reason why Caroline had hated him so much, one I could wrap my head around. It took a lot to kill someone, at least as far as I was concerned, and a drinking problem didn’t seem to warrant a shove down a flight of stairs. What I didn’t expect was to find the urn not full of ashes, but a mound of something I strongly suspected was cat litter. I knew what it smelled like now, after taking in Nicholas. I carried it across the room and sunk onto the coffee table, staring into its moldering depths.

  How long had it been stuffed with litter? Ages, perhaps. It never occurred to me to lift the lid and check the contents before. Who even bothered to peek inside urns? Everyone knew what they’d find, and it wasn’t the prettiest sight to behold.

  Caroline could hold a grudge forever. She cradled them against her chest, nursing every resentment as she would an infant. She never forgot a single sin she felt had been leveled against her. She sucked it all into her marrow, made them a part of her body. Hatred, that was something she could rely upon, hatred had never let her down the way love did. Love was so flighty and imprecise, one of those advance payday loans with sky-high interest. Love came with strings attached. It could waver, change its mind, steal everything you had when you turned your back for one second, but hatred was always there for her, ready to welcome her home, envelope her in its scaly black wings. It was always around to nurture her bitterness, it never asked her to forget it the way love did. Caroline never forgave, never forgot. She considered it the epitome of weakness to do otherwise.

  But what could have possibly happened to make her discard our father’s ashes so cavalierly? I didn’t think I wanted to know. Obviously she didn’t want me to find out. She wouldn’t have bothered refilling it with something that may have passed for ashes if she did. I’d always shouldered the job of resident housekeeper; she knew I’d realize the urn was empty when I made my rounds, wielding the feather duster and can of Lemon Pledge.

  I’d always trusted Caroline implicitly, but apparently the feelings had never been mutual.

  ***

  Days slipped past, but never without at least one harping email from Caroline.

  Kat,

  Why would you have so much allegiance to a man who never had any for you? Never mind the fact that I told you I didn’t do it—this is a man who chose vodka over you—over us—every day, without fail. I don’t know what kind of picture of him you’ve built up in your head, but I can say without a shred of doubt that it’s wrong.

  Why am I being crucified over something you don’t know the first thing about?

  C.

  I asked for the story, Caroline, the truth and nothing but, it’s your fault I don’t know the first thing about it. I sat right there, looked you dead in the face, and you never budged. You can’t repaint what happened, I saw it with my own eyes, not through the dusty lens of your made-up memories. My ears were always open. I would have been willing to forgive you anything, so long as you told me the truth. I never left, it wasn’t my hand that slipped out of your grip, you went into those dark places without me, and when you got out, I was a person you didn’t recognize. You’ve always accused me of being too nice, and if you meant I had the capacity to feel things like regret and compassion, then fine, I’m too nice, guilty as charged. I’d rather be too nice, walking free in the world than strong in prison, wearing orange jumpsuits. I’m glad I don’t damage everything I touch the way you do, my conscience wouldn’t be able to stand it.

  But don’t worry, Caroline, I still have pieces of you. Your stubbornness, for one. I’m still angry at a guy who probably doesn’t deserve it because he’d been right about you, and he’d had the gall to open my blind eyes to all this. I would have been happier in the dark, turning over your tarot cards, waiting for justice to fail so you could come home to me.

  Kat,

  If five years ago, someone had said you’d throw me over for some man, I would have told them they were crazy, but I suppose the joke is yet again on me. I’d laugh at the irony if I weren’t so horribly sad. Is it because of my absence? It hasn’t exactly been a thrill for me, either, I’d much rather be back at the condo, watching you do your homework. Is that why you’ve decided to plaster yourself against someone as despicable as a lawyer, of all people? You do know they make their living dealing in lies. You think he means everything he tells you? Think again. It won’t be long until he breaks your heart, mark my words, and when he does, I won’t bandy around any I told you so’s; I love you too much to do that. Men are essentially simple, stupid creatures; their motives are easy to untangle. Once he’s gotten his fill of you, he’ll move on. Men are like ticks in that fashion. Filthy and single-minded. They’ll suck you dry if you’re not careful. The whole world’s a boy’s club, after all—they feel they’re entitled.

  What do you think this is, love? I can tell you a thing or two about that. The myth that you can find someone who loves you unconditionally is complete and utter bullshit. Finding a person who will tolerate your flaws is a fairy tale that will never come true.

  Do you remember that fight we saw, years ago, back when you were…God, I don’t know, maybe in fifth grade? It was between a husband and a wife. She must have been drunk. Or maybe all the crying was the reason she slurred, it was hard to tell. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? How the sprinklers turned on when she was on the lawn, begging him not to leave her? It didn’t work, did it? He got in the car and drove off, and she laid there in the grass for so long I wondered if she’d died. After we went inside, I pried the blinds apart to make sure she eventually got up, but it took quite a while for her to drag herself back through the front door.

  Think about that. It’s your future, babe, and it is nigh.

  The only thing you can do is know who you are, hold onto it tightly, because that is the only thing in the world you can count on. Nobody can take that from you. Someone who cares enough to know every layer is the very great exception. Throwing them away would be lunacy. If that wasn’t quite heavy handed enough, I should remind you that I’m that person, always have been, always will be. I watched all those layers grow into place, Kitty, I know yours as well as I know my own.

  I’ll leave the light on for you.

  Love,

  Caroline.

  Sure she would, she’d be my lighthouse, only she’d steer me into craggy rocks, tear my ship to shreds. I knew what navigating her waters could do to a person.

  The hot, electric air of July crackled through the palm trees lining the condo complex as I sat on my back porch, watching Nicholas belly crawl through the overgrown grass, only the tips of his ears and tail visible. Trying to catch some of the birds on a low-slung branch. His ninja moves aside, a grade A hunter he was not. After the ninth dead mouse he’d dropped on my foot, I’d added six bells to his collar. At least the noise would be fair warning to his prey.

  I glanced back down at the latest email, offended as usual by
her words, but oddly impressed with her persistence. I hoped it really was love compelling her to write me, not ownership.

  She knew all my layers, sure, but I knew next to nothing about hers. I’d peel them back like an onion, but the thing about onions was they made me cry and they smelled.

  A boy’s club, what the hell did that mean? I guessed it meant men could catcall you on the streets with impunity, send you lewd texts and then declare you a prude for taking issue with a dick pic. It meant they could pay you filthy compliments—nice ass, baby—and if you got offended they’d pretend it was a kind thing to say, nice ass, that you should be flattered. Why can’t you take a compliment? Because you disgust me, asshole. Only you couldn’t say that, that would just make them say worse to you.

  You could take Caroline’s route, her lone panther ways, buying into the man’s world idea when it suited her, hacking it to smithereens when it didn’t. She pretended to believe the man’s world stuff when she needed to, when she had some idiot to manipulate, but she kept her fingers crossed behind her back.

  Or one could go the way of weaker willed women, I supposed, women who sobbed and followed their leaving husbands out the door, despair casting its unflattering aura. Women who pretended they loved football, didn’t care if you hadn’t called when you promised you would, didn’t mind that you always were ‘out with your boys’, loved painfully waxing themselves hairless. Those women were mostly liars, the others were deluding themselves.

  How could I respond to her letters when I didn’t have words? I couldn’t articulate everything I felt. I didn’t know how to throw words like darts the way she did, but I couldn’t let this dead air stretch further and stay silent forever.

  The red sun sunk lower behind the palms. It looked like the sky had caught fire, and I stared blankly up at it for a minute before I realized how I should stage my reply to those innumerable emails.

  I headed back inside and almost fell to my death as Nicholas streaked past my ankles, tripping me on my way into the living room.

  Looming above the mosaic urns was that stupid photograph that had netted Caroline even more attention than she normally got, and suddenly I hated the fact that she’d used an image of me to launch her career. She’d always treated me like clay. Use me, mold me. Make me anything you want, I’m yours for the taking. Paint me in your image, isn’t it such a shame you can only see your face in mirrors? How can you resist turning this blank canvas into your twin?

  My artistic skills would never be of Caroline’s caliber, but I could still send her a clumsy message in oil paints.

  ***

  I spent the bulk of the night hunched over a fraying piece of canvas, and the clock had ticked over to one in the morning by the time I’d finished.

  Burning September, Victoria Rasmussen had told me, was so special an image because of its contrast. I was so young and tender, innocent and translucent, but I was trapped in the heart of a blazing landscape and didn’t seem to realize it. It’s like you’re turning over your fate to the gods, she’d said. Asking the cards your future.

  My replica had none of those qualities. Where Caroline’s was almost transparent, mine was lush with garish colors, I almost got sick looking at it. I’d painted my little girl face like one of those hypersexualized little girl beauty pageant contestants. Thick, overdone eyeshadow layered three hues deep, long nails with a French manicure, lips glossed to high shine, looking every bit the duped idiot Caroline had made me feel like. Her photograph only had the vaguest hint of flames, wisps of smoke in the air, but my painting had bright wildfire that, if you looked hard enough, resembled hissing snakes circling the blanket I sat on.

  And face-up in front of the painted me, the tarot cards told a much different story than the slightly out of focus ones in Burning September. The Queen of Wands, The Fool, Death. There would be no room for interpretation, Caroline would know I meant them literally. I didn’t need to cloak myself in words the way she did, I could say everything and nothing at the same time.

  ***

  I mailed the canvas I’d painted the following afternoon, splurging for next-day delivery. No doubt it would spawn a flurry of furious emails from Caroline, but what else was new?

  Back in the condo, I replayed voicemails Kyle had left me. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to delete them.

  Kat, look, I get why you’re upset, but you can’t just run away, okay, that’s not how relationships work. I understand that you need some time to process, but you’ve got to talk to me eventually, so—fuck—stubbed my toe—just call me back when you’re ready.

  If you think for one second that I’d take some twisted pleasure in telling you this stuff about your dad, then you clearly don’t know me at all. Why would I want to hurt you, I’ve never done it before. It’s been three days already, you’ve got to stop with the silent treatment.

  I feel like I’m in a relationship with your voicemail, Kat. I need to hear from you.

  But what could I say? I couldn’t even formulate an email to my own sister. I knew my tongue would tie up in knots the moment the call connected. And it had been two weeks since we’d last seen each other. He probably didn’t want to hear from me anyway. A lot could happen in two weeks. A lot could happen in a minute even, it hadn’t taken that long for Caroline to stoke the flames that annihilated Brian’s house.

  But I wanted to see him, even if it meant having to admit that Caroline knew a whole lot more about our father’s death than she let on.

  It took a full hour to convince myself to get in the car. When I did, it took another ten minutes to psych myself into putting the key in the ignition. What’s the worst that can happen? The worst has already happened. There’s no way this can mangle things further. Right?

  I made myself point the Challenger in the direction of Kyle’s apartment, though I kept wanting to pull a U-turn at every red light. Don’t be a coward, I kept chastising myself, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. You know him, this shouldn’t be scary, he’s seen you naked, for God’s sake. You’ve given press conferences without being this nervous. Stop being such a chicken.

  All too soon, I found myself pulling into the visitor’s parking in Kyle’s apartment complex. I pressed my forehead into the steering wheel, eyes shut tight, until I was down to my last shaky nerve.

  The lights were on in his living room, I noticed, climbing the staircase. But still, I had to stand there on his welcome mat for a minute before I finally summoned the strength to knock. My heart hammered harder with each footstep I heard drawing nearer, and I thought I might very well pass out before he answered. I clutched my purse tighter, just to have something to do with my hands as the door swung open.

  The silence that followed was huge, it seemed too big for the entire world to contain.

  “Hi.” He looked surprised to see me, but his surprise couldn’t top mine. The second he’d answered my knock, my eyes had cut right past him and landed on a woman standing there, holding one of his stemless wineglasses.

  I was too horrified to even be catty. Whoever she was, she was pretty. Not the way Caroline was, not disturbingly beautiful, like she’d come from another dimension, but normal pretty. Shiny hair the color of Cherrywood, glowing skin, big dark eyes framed in deep black lashes. Probably prettier than me. Age appropriate too, she looked to be at least mid-twenties, like someone Kyle was always meant to be with. What was I, just some silly girl, a nice distraction for a few months, but never anything serious. I wasn’t the sensible choice.

  And I knew right then, as my limbs turned to gelatin, that I should have never broken Caroline’s rules. She’d made them up for a reason, right? To avoid this horrible feeling. My heart shot into my throat, and I knew why she’d killed Brian now. Murderous rage had to feel better than this.

  “Kat?”

  I blinked a few hundred times and looked back at Kyle, but I couldn’t bear holding eye contact for long. I wheeled around and galloped down the staircase, ignoring him when he called my name. I h
oped he wouldn’t chase after me. I had a feeling if he did I might mow him over with the Challenger he so envied.

  AUGUST

  The landslide of texts and voicemails from Kyle began the moment I’d left his apartment. She’s just a friend, Kat. You really think I’d cheat on you? Answer your goddamned phone.

  Sure she was. I always invite my friends over for wine and cozy mood lighting.

  I didn’t need to hear explanations, the sight I’d witnessed in his living room had said it all.

  Three days of absolute silence passed, and for that, I was thankful. I’d rather sit alone with Nicholas on the couch, watching bad reality TV without really seeing.

  I didn’t think there was any love out there as unconditional and enduring as the love of an animal.

  Nicholas loved me no matter what I looked like, he thought I was wonderful for doing something as simple as opening a can of Fancy Feast, for filling his water dish. He loved me so much, he could spend hours curled up in my lap. He would never bring me horrible news or one day decide he didn’t like me after all. I could get used to it, I thought, stroking his velvety ear, I could learn to love being a spinster. What the hell, I could get a few more cats, find some playmates for Nicholas. Maybe I’d get a female and she’d have kittens to fill up the place. I loved the contented sound of purring, I couldn’t think of anything better than ten purring cats roaming about the house.

  Early one morning, as I fed Nicholas on the kitchen counter, the landline rang. I figured it would be safe to answer, since Kyle didn’t have that number, only my cell phone.