How to Set Yourself on Fire

by Julia Dixon Evans

  “It’s okay.”

  “Are you sure? Do you need anything?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “How long since they let you go?” she asks. “And when do you think you’ll find something else?”

  “It’s been about a couple of weeks,” I say.

  “A couple of weeks?!”

  The call ends with rhetorical non-questions like “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” and not-questions-at-all like “I can’t believe I’m just now hearing this.” My mother is the one who is the most wronged by my unemployment.

  I hate every minute of the phone call, but I feel better about myself. I feel valid. What if, in any given mother-daughter relationship, someone just has to self-sabotage once in a while to give both parties something to hang on to?

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Go away,” I say, but I answer it anyway. The only person who knocks on my door is Torrey.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Wait. What day is it? Why aren’t you at school? It’s not Saturday, is it?”

  “Yes,” she says. “It is. Wow, that’s pretty pathetic. When I grow up, I hope I forget what day of the week it is.”

  “When you grow up,” I say, “I hope you know a twelve-year-old who makes fun of you.”

  “What are you doing today?”

  “Torrey, I didn’t even know what day it was. Do you think I have plans?”

  “I thought I heard you talking on the phone,” she says.

  “Like father, like daughter.”

  “Like neighbor.”

  “True,” I say.

  “That sounded like a super fun phone call,” she says. “Your mom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, can we hang out today?”

  “Hang out? Torrey. You don’t need to be hanging out with me. I’m thirty-five.”

  “You are? I mean, I knew you were old, but not that old,” she says. Amazed.

  “I’m sure I’m not as old as your dad!”

  “You’re older than him. He’s thirty-three.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Sheila,” Vinnie says, at conversational volume, from inside his kitchen. “Don’t cuss to my preteen daughter and don’t act so surprised.”

  “I need to get my shit together,” I say, staring at the midmorning sky, still not quite blue enough. I repeat it: “I need to get my shit together.”

  It’s not very quiet in the courtyard, when I slow down to hear it. Cars pass in regular intervals; just beyond our rusty gate is a busy street and a stop sign. Lots of revving engines. Periodic honking. Cell phone drivel of passing walkers. Regular conversations of passing walkers. Shouted conversations of passing cyclists. Cyclists never talk to each other, they only shout. Our single-story places are dwarfed by two-story postwar apartment buildings on all sides, and I feel oppressed by all the chatter, movement, slamming doors, ringing phones: busy, endless lives. There are birds on the telephone wire, nondescript black birds. Are they crows? Smaller, greenish-brown birds populate the bushes and hedges in the courtyard. I bet Vinnie could identify every last one of them. He’s washing dishes. The swish of running water and clanking ceramic and steel is louder and nearer than most anything else, but I notice it last.

  I close my eyes.

  “You don’t have to start today,” Torrey says. “Getting your shit together, that is.”

  I look at Torrey and can’t stop the giant smile.

  “Can we go to the library?” she asks.

  “Lord Almighty. You want to go to the library?”

  “Yes. I want to look up your grandma.”

  “You’re so nosy about her,” I say.

  “Aren’t you?” she asks, matter of fact.

  “Well, yes,” I say. “But I know a lot already. What’s the library going to tell me?”

  “Dad said—” she starts.

  “Were you talking to Vinnie about this?”

  “She volunteered the information,” Vinnie says from the kitchen. There are no secrets in this shared courtyard.

  “It’s not a big deal, is it?” Torrey asks.

  “No,” I say. I don’t know why it’s a big deal.

  “So Dad said we could find deed records. And look up stuff like what year Harold bought the house.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean, we don’t know how long he lived there before he met your grandmother. Do we?”

  “No, I guess not. I assumed he had just moved in,” I say.

  “Why’s that?” she asks.

  “Because he seemed so lonely,” I say, not mentioning how lonely I was living here for two years before I made any sort of meaningful contact with my neighbors. Not mentioning how it hasn’t made me feel any less lonely.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I think you’re right.”

  I don’t even know what time it is right now. I don’t even know exactly how to get to the library. Three minutes go by without a single car passing through the intersection.

  “Are you lonely?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. I don’t know. “Are you?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. She thinks, and she doesn’t hide that she’s thinking. I like that Torrey is a thinker.

  “I don’t know either,” she says.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  My darling Rosamond,

  Seeing your letter through the fence this morning was a balm to my wounded soul. But when I read it, it was as if I were wounded all over again. I am sorry that you have been ill. I am deeply sorry. It makes my heart hurt that I was so close to you, so willing to care for you, but unable to. Unable to even know you were infirmed in the first place. Unable to help in the ways I need to help. I feel compelled to take care of you, I feel compelled in every inch of my skin. I feel it on a biological level. It’s as if you are the other animal in the world I am supposed to protect from predators.

  I must know. When can I see you again? When can I see your face and speak with you? I am not supposed to be a lonely man. My work keeps me very busy and engaged. My friends are sociable and loyal, though not as geographically near to me anymore as they used to be. But being so geographically near you but not being able to spend every waking minute with you feels incredibly lonely. I want to take everything I can get. You simply must find someone to take care of Ellen one morning and come over for a cup of coffee.

  My friend called on me yesterday afternoon. His name is Artie, though ever since we returned from the war he has been trying to go by Arthur instead. It’s been years and I have yet to hear anyone actually call him Arthur. I am telling you this only because, well, first, in the grand scheme of our lives we do not know too much about each other, and second, he pointed out my sunflowers. In jest! I was so close to telling him about you. I almost pointed out that if he knew of a woman like you who grew sunflowers, he would suddenly want to grow sunflowers, too. Suddenly more than anything, I wished to tell him about you. But I didn’t.

  Today, after I return home from work, I am going to walk in the park with Ripper shortly before sunset. I know that you will have Ellen, but it would please me greatly if I were to walk past a beautiful young mother playing with her daughter in the waning afternoon warmth. The fresh air will do you well now that you have regained your strength. I will not stop or speak to you, but I will walk by and cherish that moment of seeing you in the flesh, of smiling, of looking right into your eyes. Perhaps the edges of our fingers will brush as we pass.

  Anxious to see you again,

  Harold

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE DOWNTOWN LIBRARY IS strangely lovely. All these people all doing the same things individually, apart. It’s my favorite type of community, the type where I can coexist but not have to look anyone in the eye. I never expected to love a library.

  It’s just so big. Floors upon floors of information. Torrey is as overwhelmed as I am.<
br />
  “I’ve never actually been to a library before,” she says.

  “But you’re twelve,” I say. “Kids, they go to libraries. It’s what they do.”

  “Yeah, but not in Virginia. We went to bookstores. And I have a Kindle anyway. My school had a library, but it was just a converted classroom.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well,” Torrey says, looking around. “There’s a lot of crap here. Surely there’s something about one Harold C. Carr.”

  The library doesn’t tell us much about Harold and Rosamond. We get lots of information about that house, the date Harold left, and the buyer. It turns out the buyer is the current owner, though, and Torrey hatches a plan.

  “No,” I say.

  “Why not?” she whines. I’m reminded she is a kid.

  “I’m not doing this if it pesters people. That sounds like pestering.”

  “It’s not pestering. People love a good love story.”

  “This is not a very good love story,” I say.

  “Why? Because it doesn’t have a happy ending? The best love stories have sad endings.”

  “You know a lot about love for a twelve-year-old.”

  “You don’t know very much about being a twelve-year-old, then.”

  “I was twelve once.”

  “Maybe I’m special,” she says. She is. “I understand love already.”

  “You’re wrong. Nobody ever understands love,” I say.

  “So we can’t go visit Harold’s old house?”

  “No.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll just go by myself.” She tries to look petulant but she really can’t pull it off.

  “On your own? What would Vinnie say?” I ask. I try not to laugh.

  “Well, when I’d ask him to drive me over there, Vinnie would say ‘Sure.’”

  “So, what’s stopping you, then? Why did you even bother inviting me to any of this?” I ask. I realize that I actually want to know the answer to this.

  She pouts, as best as she can.

  “Torrey,” I say. “You’re a pretty pathetic kid.”

  “Dude. That sucks.”

  “No, I mean, you can’t even do normal kid things like whine and pout. You’re better at being a mature human than pretty much every grown-up I know.”

  “Well, thanks. So now will you take me to Harold’s old house? Please?”

  “Maybe later.” Goddamn it.

  “When?” Torrey asks.

  “Maybe never.”

  “Pleeeease?”

  “Maybe later, like a long time from now. I want to know more first,” I say. “And I want to go home now.”

  I’m so weak.

  Dear Rosamond,

  Oh, it was so lovely to see you in the park. Walking by you electrified me. I daresay I felt a true electric current pass between us as our fingertips brushed. You must think I am so silly. But, I implore you: tell me if you felt it too.

  “I love that part,” Torrey says.

  “Which part?” I ask.

  “The ‘electrified’ part.”

  “Yeah, me too. It’s so cheesy. Now shut up, I’m trying to read.”

  Yes, let’s meet again. I suppose I suggested it first, so I shall say that I accept your implied agreement on the matter. Tuesday may work. I do not have to work until the afternoon. You may stay all morning if you wish. I would wish for that, of course, but I understand if you either do not share that wish or if you cannot arrange it.

  “I love that,” Torrey says.

  “God, you love everything.”

  “Well, yeah. But I love how insecure he is.”

  “Nice.”

  “You know what I mean. He came across as such a poised and witty man in his first letter. Just all, ‘Sorry about your daughter’s mangled doll,’ and stuff. But now he’s kind of…I don’t know. Adorable. Isn’t he?”

  “I guess my grandma thought so.”

  Torrey laughs. “Yeah. I guess she did.”

  Please reply as soon as possible. I’m not sure I can survive the wait until Tuesday morning. I suppose I have endured much worse. The war, nights in trenches, enemy fire. Perhaps there are tortures greater than having you live so close to me. It just doesn’t feel like it right now.

  Sincerely,

  Harold

  “Oh, man,” Torrey says.

  “Let me guess. You loved that part.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “He’s so dramatic. He’s like a caricature.”

  “Well I love him,” she says, as if I don’t.

  “You should go home. Doesn’t Vinnie ever feed you dinner?”

  “I think we’re going to make pizzas together tonight.”

  I feel stupid, because I can feel it happening, and I’m powerless to stop it and powerless to step outside of my head. I feel an icy-edged tightness in my lungs, climbing swiftly to the back of my throat. My fingers spread, locked. I close my eyes. I try to focus on breathing instead of focusing on panicking about panicking. I have the wherewithal to identify what’s happening to me but I don’t have the presence of mind to do anything about it. All I can do is wait.

  “Sheila?”

  I was eleven and my dad stood next to me. I knelt on one of the barstools in the kitchen, the same one that I fell off when I was six. I needed four stitches behind my ear and it was the first time I saw that much blood.

  So, from ages six through ten, I wouldn’t use the barstools and I forget if this was a rule or a suggestion from my worrier parents, and my dad would put a tablecloth on the kitchen floor for pizza night prep, to catch our mess. Eventually we stopped bothering to make the dough ourselves; it was shitty Boboli but I didn’t mind. This was our thing, me and my dad, whenever my mom went out in the evenings. It had always been just us two.

  By ten, I was back on the barstool. My dad got more artful with the slicing of the toppings now that he was back at the countertop. Mushrooms, sliced thinly so they’d crisp in the oven. Olives, only on his side. Green peppers, cut into long strips to make a green mouth for pepperoni eyes.

  “Sheila, you’re making a mess,” he said. He was always talking about the mess.

  “Sorry, Dad,” I said. “This cheese is sticky.”

  “It’s okay,” He said, and he exhaled loudly. “It’s just mess,” he said. His voice cracked. I tried not to look at him.

  “Are you excited for tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Hm?”

  “Tomorrow morning? My confirmation?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. I’m so proud,” he said, and I could tell he was lying. Neither of my parents cared about the things I cared about: that I was the youngest person the church had ever confirmed. Neither of them cared about my significant and intellectual relationship with Reverend Jenny, the youth pastor I babysat for. She paid really well. She understood me. She didn’t ask me questions about Jesus or salvation, and when I asked her the questions, questions like, “Isn’t it wrong to believe in that?” or “Isn’t it wrong to not believe in that part?” she told me: “Kiddo, it doesn’t matter what you believe, it’s just that you believe at all.” She told everyone that same thing, but I felt like she made it up just for me.

  “Are you going to go?” I asked. “To church tomorrow?”

  “Sure, Sheila. Sure,” he said.

  We made the pizzas. I watched my dad clean up the cutting boards while the oven seethed. He picked up all the pieces of cheese and the dusts of flour and errant crumbs on the floor. He wiped down all the splatters of sauce, all the miniscule grease imprints left by the spilled shreds of cheese. But the pizzas turned out terrible, they were always terrible. I just wanted to pick up the cheese in clumpy, melty sheets and eat that plain. So I did. I peeled it off in one giant slice-shaped piece and rolled it into a little saucy cheese roll.

  “Shelia, that’s disgusting,” he said. I was only eleven but I already knew that he shouldn’t shame a child like this. My mother would stop him if she were home. “Just eat it properly, wo
uld you?”

  I picked up the slice and took a bite.

  I felt exactly as disgusting as I was told I was.

  And then, the next day, he was nowhere.

  THIRTY

  “SHEILA!”

  It’s Vinnie. He’s shaking my shoulders. He’s in my house. So is Torrey.

  “What?” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sheila, are you playing dumb?” Torrey asks. She sounds apathetic. It’s the way I like her.

  “No?” I say. “I mean, I know you were already over here, but Vinnie just fucking appeared out of nowhere.”

  “I’ve been here for five minutes,” he says.

  “He’s exaggerating,” Torrey says. “It hasn’t even been like one entire minute. Forty-five seconds max.”

  “Why are you so brilliant?” I ask her. “Why? You’re so great.”

  “Sheila, are you drunk?” Vinnie asks.

  “No, she’s not,” Torrey says. “I was with her all afternoon. She’s just been reading with me.”

  “I’m not drunk. God.”

  “Dad, she just spaced out. Just like I said.”

  “She’s acting drunk,” he says.

  “I’m not,” I say. “You’d know if I was drinking. Believe me. And hey, it’s pizza night,” I say.

  Nobody answers me.

  “You should go,” I continue. “Make sure she doesn’t fall off the stool. She’ll always have a scar. Never use Boboli crusts.”

  “Sheila…?” Torrey asks.

  “Come to think of it, pizza night is a bad idea. Never make pizza with your dad, Torrey,” I say. I know I sound crazy. I can hear the slur in my voice. “Pizza. Bad idea. Crazy idea.”

  “I love pizza,” Vinnie says.

  I open my eyes. I didn’t realize they were closed until I open them. Vinnie is smiling, at least.

  “I haven’t had pizza since I was eleven years old,” I say.

  I watch Torrey look at her father. I envy her. She’s twelve. Even if their relationship falls apart in thirty seconds, she’ll still have at least one more year with her dad than I did. But that makes me think about all the years when Torrey’s mother had primary custody and she lived hours away and then, I remember. Her mother.