by Jack Gantos
“But why would they set their own house on fire?”
“To scare us,” Mom said. “Burning down a house is about the most terrifying thing you can do to someone because it says you have no respect for human life, or anything.”
I don’t know why but at that moment I thought of the Lost Worlds book. Invading armies would always burn a city down. Why wouldn’t they just want to conquer the city and keep it as their own? Why would the ancient Greeks burn Troy? Or why would the invading Goths burn Rome? It seemed like the smartest thing to do would be to capture the city and keep it for yourself. If the Hells Angels moved into that house and lived in our town that would be more frightening to me than burning the house down. But maybe what Mom said is right—burning something down is the most terrifying thing you can do because burning a house down to the ground is the same as putting a person six feet under.
“This is just too sad,” Mom said with a shudder as she turned away and handed the binoculars to me. “Watching it burn is like watching someone being tortured. I can’t look.”
“Could you see Dad?” I asked.
“No,” she replied, and poured a glass of water from the sink. “The fire truck is there, but nothing can be done. The house is a complete loss.”
“Should I go tell Miss Volker?” I asked.
“Let her sleep,” Mom said with mercy in her voice. “It will be bad enough for her in the morning. Just return the binoculars before your dad gets home. I’m going to bed.”
I took the binoculars and went out the back door but I didn’t go to the garage. I trotted over to the picnic table and used the bench to step up and stand on the tabletop as I had done the night I fired off the sniper rifle.
I held the binoculars up and focused on the small house. I could see the flames leaping into the air, and the confetti of glowing ash that floated above the flames as if a magical fairy celebration were taking place in some ancient world under a dark night. But it wasn’t a celebration. The blistering flames rising above the house were just waving goodbye to everyone who was watching. And even for those not watching it was a piece of history dropping to its knees before disappearing forever.
It was too sad, so I swung the binoculars toward the Viking Drive-in. As usual, a war movie was playing. American and Korean soldiers were machine-gunning each other to bits across a shell-pocked field. Fiery explosions tossed bodies through the air to bleed out and nourish the exhausted dirt. It was an American-made movie and I knew we would win, but still I could feel myself getting all worked up. My heart pounded and my breathing was rapid and my eyes were glued onto each American soldier and I could feel myself wanting to shout “Come on, kill them, kill them all,” and when one of the American stars got shot I jerked away from the screen and lowered the binoculars.
I was panting like a dog and passed my hand under my nose to feel for blood. Nothing. Maybe Miss Volker had fixed my nose, but it didn’t stop me from wanting to watch war movies. That was the weird thing about death. In real life I was afraid of it. In the movies I couldn’t get enough of it.
I swung the binoculars back toward the burning house at the moment when the roof caved in and the final golden crown of flames rose up through the air. I felt as if I were trapped inside that house, as if I couldn’t escape the broiling walls—as if my life and the life of that house were burning down together. I stood there for a minute because that cruel moment had captured me in its tight fist, but after a while the harsh feeling weakened and I lowered my head as I stepped down from the table and across the wilted grass and returned the binoculars to the chest and went to my room. Watching that house burn was the torture Mom claimed it was. It felt like we were cursed. And after I crawled into my bed and got settled under the sheet it wasn’t easy to fall asleep.
* * *
As soon as the phone rang I shouted out, “Tell her I’ll be down in a minute. I have to brush my teeth.”
I got out of bed and dressed and dashed to the kitchen where Mom gave me half of her egg and butter sandwich.
“Did Dad say anything when he got home?” I asked with my mouth full.
“You better get a move on,” she replied. “Believe me, if there is anything to be said about last night Miss Volker will say it.”
When I arrived on her porch there were about a half-dozen big ceramic pots by her door. They were covered in black soot and all the plants were leafless and charred. One pot was in the shape of a large owl’s head, and growing out the top were just the spindly burned stems of something that had been alive the day before. There was a card between the stems and I knew I had to read it. I put my ear to Miss Volker’s door. I didn’t hear any movement. I reached down and quickly opened the card. Sorry, these were all I could rescue.—E. Spizz, Volunteer Fire Deputy. I closed it up and put it back between the stems. He was always leaving her presents and he must have saved these from her sister’s house.
I opened her door. “Miss Volker,” I hollered, “are you dressed?”
“What would it matter?” she replied glumly. “Today I’m not a person—I feel like a box full of cold ashes.”
When I entered the living room she was sitting on the couch wrapped up in a large knitted afghan. The tears ran in uneven channels down the wrinkled maze of skin on her face. Watching an old person cry is not the same as watching a young person cry. Old people don’t really seem hurt so much as they seem hopeless, which is worse.
“I heard about your sister’s house,” I said quietly. “You can have it rebuilt. My dad could do it.”
She wiped her face against her bony shoulders. “No,” she replied softly. “It’s gone for good. But not forgotten. Sit down and get your pencil and paper. Today we are going to write a different kind of obituary.”
I took my seat and got my pad and sharpened my pencil. “I’m ready,” I said, and licked the tip of the lead.
“This is not your normal obituary,” she started, and I could hear the strength return to her voice. Then she pulled herself up like a drum major about to march at the head of her words. “This is the obituary of a house—a home that was born of love and died by the hands of hatred. The little house on parcel number 11 in section D on Larkspur Circle was born in 1935. Mrs. Roosevelt was the godmother and a great one she was. When the government offered to help poor people build houses in Norvelt the architects drew up plans to have entire families live like farm animals in one barnlike room with a bathroom outhouse and a kitchen that was nothing but a wood-burning cook shed on the back of the property. The government’s idea of helping poor people was to give them some shelter to survive, but not to allow them to live a life of pride.
“But Godmother Roosevelt came to the rescue. She made sure people had real houses—little New England–style houses—and they had bedrooms and a living room and a useful kitchen and a bathroom with a bathtub, and even a laundry room with a washing machine. The government called this luxury living. But Mrs. Roosevelt called it living with dignity.
“My sister and I lived together here in my number 3 house in section A until she met and married Mr. Chester Hap in 1941. He was an original Norvelt member who was accepted into the new town because he was an electrician and was needed. He helped folks wire their houses and in return they helped him build his house. In true Norvelt fashion he bartered his skills for their skills until the two hundred and fifty houses were fully built.
“Many good times were had in the Hap home. All the holidays were celebrated with artistic decorations, as my sister was head of the Federal Art Project in Norvelt and she taught ceramics and painting and the decorative arts in her garage art studio, and up at the school and Community Center. Their home was a Babylonian garden of beauty. They had a grape arbor, beds of asparagus, lettuce, tomatoes, and potatoes, as well as fruit trees and a field with corn and soybeans. The grounds were graced with raised beds of mixed bouquets, and the full perimeter of the property was edged with azaleas, which fit the house like a gilded frame fits a beautiful painting.
/> “In such a fertile home devoted to beauty, love, and understanding, only one thing was missing—a child. My sister was a little too old for motherhood, but in 1942, after the bombing at Pearl Harbor when Japanese Americans were being rounded up and sent to internment camps, a Japanese couple with a new baby arranged for their infant son to be adopted by my sister and her husband. This way the child would have a loving home and not have to be sent to a prison camp and suffer the hardship and shame of that life. I remember that beautiful baby and the love my sister and her husband graced upon him. They had an angelic six months together until the federal government tracked that baby down and took him away, all because he was of Japanese origin—an enemy of America in diapers!
“We never knew what became of the baby nor did we forget the heartlessness of our own government,” Miss Volker said with her arms folded in a tight X across her chest. “It cut us so deeply, as we loved that little innocent boy who lived in a house devoted solely to his innocence. And now the house has been burned to the ground by a gang of Hells Angels who have turned their obscene hatred toward our town. They poured gasoline throughout the house and garage and lit them on fire and like cowards they fled in the night. It is a sad death for a house to become nothing but ashes and dust and earth, but we in Norvelt will never forget every splinter of the life it lived.”
I had tears in my eyes but Miss Volker looked revived, as if a few hot embers of the house were glowing within her. “Boy,” she said as she tried to close her hands into two bony fists and punch out at the air, “I love it when I get mad! I feel like I’m ready to take on the world—I’d like to show a few of those Hells Angels a thing or two.”
I hurried up and typed the obituary and ran it down to the Norvelt News. Mr. Greene took it from my hands and read it. “An obit for a house?” he questioned as he relit his pipe. “Has she lost her mind?”
“No,” I said. “She just speaks her mind.”
“Amen to that,” he remarked.
15
Mom was reading the house obituary in the newspaper and taking the last sips of her coffee before she went to work. “This is really a sad obit,” she remarked when I entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. “Honestly, Miss Volker should just leave and go live with her sister in Florida.”
“But she won’t until she’s the last original Norvelt person left standing,” I explained, and pulled out the milk. “She promised Mrs. Roosevelt she’d nurse this town to the end.”
Dad overheard us on his way out the door. “Well, when she finds out about my new top secret job,” he said in a muffled voice full of intrigue, “she might change her mind. ’Cause there’ll be no town to nurse.”
“What do you mean by that?” Mom and I called out.
“You’ll see what I mean—later,” he said, teasing us as his voice trailed off. Then he was gone.
I turned back to Mom, who shrugged. “Well,” she said as she rinsed her coffee cup. “I’d hate to see these old folks move on to the next world, but for some of them it might be for the best.”
“How can dying be good for you?” I asked.
“When living is worse,” she replied matter-of-factly. Then she turned toward the door. “Clean up your room before you do your outdoor chores—and don’t forget to feed the turkeys,” she said. “They get mad when they’re hungry and they take it out on War Chief.”
I nodded. Once I finished eating I slunk back to my room to put on my work clothes, which were stiff with dirt. Then I went outside and with my new birthday shovel I got back to digging the bomb shelter. I had asked Dad what size it needed to be and he said the hole should be as large as a swimming pool. So far it was about the same size as a bathtub.
I had just thrown a shovelful of dirt out of the hole when I noticed a human shadow hovering over me. I looked up and it was Mr. Spizz. He had a camera pressed against his squinty face.
“What are you taking a picture of?” I asked.
I heard a click and he lowered the camera. “Gantos boy, take a look at that runway,” he said loudly, and pointed accusingly at it. “That airplane and runway are going to be trouble for your dad.”
I looked over at the runway. Dad had it flattened out and he had the J-3 almost ready to fly. All he had to do was connect the wings, start the engine, and take off right out the back door. I knew he would be really upset if Mr. Spizz turned the town against his plans.
“I can see by the look on your face that you don’t want to disappoint your dad, do you?” Spizz asked. “I also heard that he’s been taking flying lessons over in Kecksburg, so I’d hate to make him plow up this new runway.”
Dad had told only me about his private flying lessons. He didn’t dare tell Mom, but somehow that nosy Mr. Spizz seemed to know everything.
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t like to disappoint my dad.”
“Then I have a way you can help him avoid trouble and keep his runway,” he barked.
The louder he spoke the more I lowered my voice. “What’s that?” I asked.
He turned his ear toward me. “Trot down to the hardware store and buy me a tin of 1080 poison—I got some vermin to kill up at the dump.” He pointed toward Fenton’s Gas Station. The dump was just beyond it and sometimes the rats came out of the murky old mine shafts and swarmed over the dump and then spread out into everyone’s house and garden. It was disgusting to find knots of them gathered hungrily on the back porch.
“Why can’t you go down there yourself?” I asked. “On your tricycle.”
“I hurt my leg,” he groused, and pulled up his pants leg. The side of his calf from his ankle to his knee was darkly bruised and swollen. “When I went after those Hells Angels one of them was lagging behind, and he drove by and kicked me in the leg and I crashed my trike—which reminds me. While you’re at the store, get me a tube repair kit for my tire. Boy, if I’d’ve had that baseball bat in my hand I would have knocked that Nazi helmet off his head.”
I thought it was probably pretty good that he didn’t have the bat. The Hells Angel would have taken it and knocked his head into the next county.
“And then at the fire the other night,” he continued, “when I was trying to rescue some ceramic pots, I tripped and hurt it again.”
“Well, I’m grounded,” I explained in a whisper, and shrugged my shoulders. “Can’t leave the property.”
“What’d you say?” he shouted, and screwed his finger into his ear then popped it out and stared at the waxy amber tip. “Now, are you going to help me? Or do you want me to make sure your dad is grounded too, if you know what I mean?” His awful voice made what he was saying even more of a threat.
“What about the gutter ticket?” I asked with my voice raised so he could easily hear me.
“I’ll make that fly away too,” he said reluctantly, grimacing a bit because of the pain in his leg.
I had planned to offer him my two-dollar bill as a partial payment on the ticket, but now I could spend it on myself. “It’s a deal,” I said, and pulled myself out of the hole. When I stood up I stuck out my hand and he slapped five dollars into it. I gave him the shovel. “Lean on this,” I suggested. “I’ll be right back.”
“And not a word to your girlfriend,” he said in a gruff way. “Or else.”
* * *
I took off running through the backyard paths and behind hedges. When I passed Miss Volker’s house I ducked way down as I ran because I didn’t want her to ask what I was up to and then get it out of me that I was doing a favor for Mr. Spizz, which would trigger a tirade I didn’t have time to endure. I was quick and when I got close to the hardware store I made a mad dash for the front door and scooted inside, because if Mom saw me from the open pants-factory windows across the street she’d ground me for another year. I caught my breath then quickly got the tube patch kit from the shelf and went up to the cash register. I didn’t know the man behind the counter, because the hardware store had been bought and the new owner hired people outsid
e of Norvelt.
“Can I help you?” he asked as he cleaned his fingernails with a small red pocketknife.
“Yes,” I replied, and looked at the tiny spirals of dirt rolling along the stained blade of the knife. I gulped for breath. “May I have a can of 1080?” I put the tube kit and crumpled five-dollar bill on the counter.
“You’ll need a note from your parents before I can sell poison to you,” he said plainly. “That stuff is deadly.”
“It’s for Mr. Spizz,” I explained. “He works for the Public Good. He hurt his leg and I’m helping him out ’cause he has to kill all the rats.” I pointed like a scarecrow toward the dump.
“I guess that’s okay,” he allowed. “I know old Spizz. But you still have to sign this sheet saying you bought some—it’s a new law.”
I would have signed anything. I just wanted to slink out of there as quickly as I could before anyone entered the store who knew Mom or Dad and might mention they saw me there.
As I read down the list of names on the sheet I saw that Mr. Huffer was the last man to sign it. The thought of rats living in his coffins knotted my stomach as I signed my name. When I looked up from the paper the man was staring directly into my face as if he recognized me from a post office Wanted poster.
“Your nose is bleeding,” he said slowly, and pointed at it with the blade of his skinny little knife. “On the left side.”
Just then a drop of blood slid down my lip and plopped onto the soft paper where a moment before I had written my name. I stared down at the red spot of blood as it spread through the paper fibers. I didn’t like how that looked.
I wiped my nose on my forearm and saw a ruddy streak from my wrist to my elbow. “Thanks,” I said, sniffing loudly. And then nervously added, “I have Hemingway’s liver disease.”
He looked at me like I was already insane.
I grabbed the bag off the counter and quickly turned toward the door. Once I was outside there was more blood. I thought maybe my nose was bleeding because of all the running I did. But I had a feeling it was more than that. The blood drop on my name was a bad omen. Maybe it was because I had broken the rules and left the yard and I was worried about it. Or maybe it was because I didn’t really trust making deals with Mr. Spizz. Then again, maybe it was the way the hardware store man made me sign my name on the paper like I was up to no good. Or that seeing Mr. Huffer’s name gave me creepy thoughts. I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that I was bleeding on one side and I didn’t want Miss Volker to try and fix me again. Her hands were getting worse and worse.