How to Set Yourself on Fire

by Julia Dixon Evans

  “Look at you, all fancy,” Vinnie says.

  “Where’s Torrey?” I ask. Is that all I ever ask Vinnie these days?

  “She’s inside, studying or something, listening to something terrible. I made her put headphones on.”

  “Every generation thinks the next one’s music is terrible.”

  “That’s an overgeneralization,” he says. “I like some of what she listens to.”

  “Music makes me insane.”

  “You’re already insane,” he says.

  “I mean, it makes it worse. It makes it all worse,” I say. Why have I never had someone listen to me in my whole life the way that Vinnie and Torrey listen to me? “Sometimes I can’t listen to it without feeling like I’m drowning. I guess everything just feels…stronger.”

  “So that’s not entirely a bad thing?” he prompts.

  “It is, entirely.”

  “Even when you feel the good stuff more strongly?”

  I turn my head and look away. It’s dark now, the crescent moon is rising, the clouds, the marine layer have all moved in and I can’t see the stars anymore. I feel very young and very old at the same time, in the same body, in the same heart.

  There’s never any good stuff.

  My dear Rosamond,

  Oh, that knock on my door this morning. It is always a joy to see you or correspond with you, but to see you unexpectedly was such a pleasure. I failed to ask why I deserved such a visit. I failed to inquire as to how you orchestrated it. There was too much on my mind.

  In the mornings, you are quiet and peaceful. There is much that I could feel about that, much that I could say about that, but I do not desire to let myself get started now. Mostly: I hope your husband understands how lucky he is. Does he recognize your peace? Does he feel grateful? If only there were some way to pat him on the back, to shake his shoulders, to ask him, “Do you know how lucky you are, my fellow?”

  I find myself disturbed at my own thoughts. Would I like that? That he would suddenly realize how lucky he is, and step up as a partner and lover? Where would that leave me, the neighbor? What do I truly want? Do I want you all to myself, or as much to myself as I can get you? Do I simply want to make you happy? Or is that still too selfish? Shouldn’t I just want you to be happy, however you get there?

  The human being is, at its core, a selfish creature. I cannot deny my own desires and my own selfishness. But human beings are also granted compassion and empathy. And above all else, above my animalistic selfishness, I want the best for you. You are more important to me than my own needs. If your husband were to suddenly delight you, so much so that you no longer had any need for correspondence with your lonely neighbor, then my primary emotion would have to be happiness. I would be so happy that your life were richer.

  But until then, I am here.

  Sincerely,

  Your Harold.

  FORTY-ONE

  THE ZIPLOC BAG IS empty. The nightstand is empty. Just the bag, the empty shell. It’s see-through, and it’s not even zipped shut. It’s regret, in a way, what I’m feeling. I wish I still had Jesse’s letter. Jesse was a jerk, but I have to believe anybody would be a jerk to someone like me.

  I take a deep, loud breath, in and out, through my nose. It’s been three days since I last used my phone, and it takes me all morning to find it. It’s dead. I consider leaving it dead. I consider that there might be messages waiting for me. From whom, I don’t know. My mother was just here the other day, so it turns out we have the kind of mother-daughter relationship that includes stopping by unexpectedly. The temp agency stopped contacting me. It’s my turn. And my father wouldn’t call. My father doesn’t even know my phone number. My father is nowhere.

  When my phone is charged enough to turn on, I stare at it. Nothing happens. No notifications. No messages. I am nowhere.

  “Hi, yeah, sure. My personnel number? Hang on, let me look,” I say as I shoulder my phone and shuffle through the filing cabinet. I read it off, this number I used to have memorized, like my social or my passwords.

  “Sheila?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You’re interested in a placement?”

  “Yes, anything really.”

  “Okay, well, we have a bit of a waitlist right now for general staffing, but something should come up in the next few hours.”

  “Hours?”

  “Yes, we should have something for you by tomorrow at the latest. You have a pretty diverse history.”

  “Okay, well, thanks,” I say. “I just wait for a call? Or do I, like, get ready for work tomorrow?”

  I can hear a smile in her voice. Either a smile or total face-paralyzing apathy. “Yes, go ahead and get ready for work tomorrow. Whatever you need to do.”

  “Whoa. What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to work, Torrey.”

  “Whoa,” she says again. “I always thought you were, like, independently wealthy or something, and you didn’t work because you didn’t need to.”

  “If you were independently wealthy, would you live in my house?”

  “Probably not,” she says. “So, how long have you had a job and never mentioned it?”

  “This is my first day. It’s just a temp job.”

  “Oh, so you actually haven’t been working.”

  “No. Well, off and on. I like to keep things off and on,” I say.

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t even know. It’s a bank. I hate bank jobs.”

  “Does this mean I won’t see you much?” she asks.

  “Nah, I’ll be home by four,” I say. I want to make some sort of joke about the fact that I just told someone what time I’d be home but I’m afraid to trigger some sort of mom grief. Torrey does it herself.

  “Just in time to make me some milk and cookies.”

  I step through the bank’s glass doors without taking a second to steel myself. I know, steeled or not, that this day will be insufferable. I know, steeled or not, that I will not last here. I know, steeled or not, that this time I’m going to try anyway.

  “How was it?” Vinnie asks. It’s midnight. Torrey’s asleep. A dense marine layer lies over much of the city. A dense marine layer lies in our courtyard. A dense marine layer lies between Vinnie and me.

  “Fine,” I say. It’s not exactly the truth but it’s exactly as much truth as I feel like getting into. If I’m not fine when nothing terrible is happening, then how can I ever hope for anything beyond fine?

  Vinnie kicks back onto two legs of his green plastic chair. They bend a little. It’s barely noticeable, but they bend. I expect him to be smoking but he isn’t.

  “I can never read you,” he says.

  “I’m not for reading.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “About what?” I ask. It’s almost funny enough to crack a smile, toying with him. Except he doesn’t seem to be toying.

  “About being fine.”

  “I’m not fine,” I say. Now I smile. “I never claimed to be fine.”

  “About work,” he says.

  Goddamn, his patience is annoying.

  “Goddamn, your patience is annoying,” I say.

  “Thanks. Your annoyingness is annoying,” he says.

  “That was brilliant. What happened to irritated, impatient, angry Vinnie on Skype calls to your ex and Torrey across the country?”

  “I’m not making those calls anymore,” he says, and I’d feel like a jerk, but he sounds mellow. “How was work?”

  I look up. There’s no sky to see. I can barely see Vinnie.

  “It was terrible,” I answer eventually.

  “Tomorrow is another day,” he says.

  The next morning, I don’t go to work. By eleven, I feel so guilty that I go in anyway, and by eleven thirty I completely regret this. I’d have been better off blacklisted by the staffing agency than subjected to half a day of this negative cubicle energy.

  At first, I feel triumphant. I somehow managed to c
raft myself as a martyr on day two.

  “Are you feeling better, Shelly?” my new boss asks. She wears a lot of makeup and a lot of tight pants.

  “Sheila. And, yeah, I’m feeling a little better. I didn’t want to miss my entire second day at work,” I say.

  “Well, that’s really good of you. It shows tremendous dedication,” she says.

  And here it is. Farewell, triumph. Welcome, shit.

  “But we are an official Healthy People, Healthy Workplace site. We take illnesses very seriously as to how they affect our bottom line,” she says. “One employee out sick has little to no impact on productivity. But a dozen employees out sick over a small period of time, well, that has a great impact on productivity.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “As long as you’re feeling better?” she says.

  I nod.

  She walks off, but then returns to the shared temp cubicle and leans in.

  “Now, I understand that your staffing agency does not guarantee sick pay. Or that perhaps you do not have health insurance?”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. This close, it looks like she might paint in the mole on her cheek. It is a perfectly symmetrical circle, a shade of brown too dark and with edges too sharp to be natural.

  I nod again. I’m not even sure what she’s getting at.

  “Well, I understand you’re in a pickle. If you wish, you may go home early without any consequence. We’ll mark you as having worked a full day. We take workplace health and the illness-to-productivity quotient very seriously here.”

  I’m home by one forty-five.

  FORTY-TWO

  I SKIP AHEAD IN the letters. I need some bad news. I need something to make me feel better about my shitty day, not something to make it seem like everyone else is having wonderful lives around me and before me and after me.

  My dearest Rosamond,

  Today has been torturous. Saturdays are usually lazy days in the garden for me, but all morning I haven’t been able to sneak a letter through your fence due to your husband’s presence in your backyard. Even through my open windows (it was too hot, I couldn’t keep them closed) could I hear the laughter of your little family, the three of you at play. As you should. It is your right as a family. I spent the morning with only the company of my own thoughts. Thinking about the new reality of our friendship. Thinking about the things I have somehow implicitly agreed to accept. About the things I never, ever imagined in a million years that I would concern myself with. Inconsequential things, like the life of a child, the life of a mother, the logistical differences between your life and mine. And things not so inconsequential. Incredibly consequential things like infidelity, like marriage vows, like the anger of a scorned man, like the broken heart of a child in a broken home.

  Do not be mistaken. I came to no conclusions. I have no new wisdom on any of this.

  You were so busy today, so occupied with your life. I considered the difference between you and me. You, happy, delighting in your perfect family. And me, sitting alone, festering in the shadow of this joyous morning across the fence.

  There’s a knock.

  “Sheila?” It’s Torrey.

  “Come in.”

  “Oh, hey. I just got home from school. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I came home sick.”

  “Reading letters?” she says.

  “Yeah.” I try not to laugh. I wonder: what if I told her I was actually sick. What if I told her to leave? I expect to like the idea, to revel in being alone, but I don’t. I hate the idea.

  She stands awkwardly in the doorframe.

  “It’s the one where he heard Rosamond’s family playing in the backyard.”

  “Oh, shit. That one,” she says, puffing out a breath.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m glad your mom never read these, especially that one.”

  “I’m still not convinced she hasn’t.”

  “But to be your mom and know he was, like, totally tormented by your toddler happiness? That’s gotta suck.”

  “Yup. Gotta suck,” I repeat, smiling. “It’s a good thing these are buried six feet down.”

  She sits down on the edge of my bed. “Read it to me.”

  “From the beginning?”

  “No, from wherever you left off. I remember them pretty well.”

  The hardest part, I admit, was hearing him exchange words of endearment with you.

  “Oh!” Torrey interrupts. “So he’s already said the thing where he’s afraid of the anger of the scorned husband?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “I love that part. It’s so creepy. Kinda ominous. Okay, carry on.”

  When he mumbled anything, I imagined him putting his arm around your shoulders. Perhaps even a full embrace. Did you kiss? On second thought, you shouldn’t answer that. Judging by my disposition this evening, I believe there are some things best left a mystery.

  I do not feel any differently about our friendship. I have not changed my mind in any way. My day of tormented thinking has not solved any puzzles.

  “Ooh,” Torrey says. “I like this part. This next part is the thing about honesty, right? Such a glorious train of thought.”

  “Jeez, Torrey,” I say. “Do you have these memorized? Why am I even reading this out loud?”

  “I read everything more than once. Even things I know like the back of my hand.”

  “I’d blame it on your lack of social life since moving here, but I also have no social life. And I do not have your fervent reading skills.”

  “I have a social life!” she says. “Well. It’s getting there?”

  “Oh, that’s good news,” I say. “I’m happy for you. Want to tell me about your friends?”

  I feel like such a douche, carefully spooning out these lines, like I’m reading some teleprompter on How to Talk to Kids About Their Friends.

  “Can’t we get back to Harold?” she says. “He’s about to be really awesome.”

  “Awesomely hypocritical.”

  “I disagree. Well, on the surface. It’s hypocritical to be in any sort of affair and then be all high and mighty about honesty.”

  “The end.”

  “What?”

  “I mean,” I say, “you’ve said enough. You can’t rationalize it after you say that.”

  “Hear me out,” she says. “It’s no secret that I think Harold and Rosamond have something beautiful.”

  “Had,” I correct.

  “God, you’re such a downer. Yes. Well, I think they are against the odds. They’re the underdog. Think of them that way. The affair is a circumstance they can’t control.”

  “Torrey, for a kid, you’re awfully forgiving of grown-ups making bad choices.”

  “I’m hardly a kid. I’ll be a teenager very soon.”

  “Let’s just let Harold rant, hm?”

  “Yes, fine,” she says. “I still love him.”

  I smile. “You’re a sucker.”

  “You love him too,” she says. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

  But I wanted to tell you about my strife, my torment, my torture. In a way, I think I need full and complete honesty with you. I’m not certain if that is some terrible way of alleviating the guilt of our one true dishonesty, or my own attempts at balancing it out. But I need it nonetheless. I simply have to tell you what I’m going through. What I suffer through when I’m apart from you. What I feel when I see you with your family. I hope you do not think I am telling you all of this to achieve some underhanded goal. I did not write this to make you feel guilty for your happiness, for your life that is separate from me. I want you to be happy, however you may come about it. But you are all I have to talk to about my torment. You alone are my torment and it must forever go unshared, unaired, except with you. And please, do pander to my need for honesty between us. I feel so dishonest in all other ways. The least we can do is be honest with each other. I believe it might be the one thing I have to cling to.

  Mi
ssing you terrifically,

  Your Harold

  “I love it when he customizes his greetings,” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  It takes a minute before I realize why I chose this letter to read. The bad mood, the terrible work day, the shitty boss. I wanted to feel better about myself with a reminder that other people had shitty lives too. But instead, my shitty life was completely forgotten.

  “Hey, Sheila,” Torrey says. “Let me see it.” She scans the first page. “I’ve been thinking,” she says.

  “About?”

  “You know how you once mentioned that their affair is unconsummated?”

  I panic. Don’t ask about sex. Don’t ask about sex. “Yes?”

  “Well, I think you’re wrong,” she says. “I think they kissed or something.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what it means, right?”

  Shit. “Uh, basically,” I say. “I’d definitely consider kissing to be taking the affair to the next level.”

  She nods and I’m incredibly grateful that she seems satisfied with that answer. Torrey is not naïve. I assume she already knows at least a little bit about sex. I just do not want to discuss it with her.

  “Well, I’ve thought this before,” she says. “That they, like, did stuff, but later on in the stack of letters. I think a year or two from this point? But this part, about the ‘new reality’ of their friendship, the ‘one true dishonesty’? That makes me wonder if it had already happened.”

  “Wait. You think they did stuff later? Show me!” I point to the shoebox.

  For some reason, the order and the tidiness of the letters soothe me. Order and tidiness in general soothe me, but it’s not dependable. I could very well be listless, prone on my couch for days, dust crusted around me, dishes piling up, whiskey the only thing cutting my cottony mouth, musk caking the spaces between my breasts and my legs, and not care. The letters, though—I’m dependable with the letters. I’m curious how Torrey will treat them when given unbridled access, because the first time she read them I micromanaged the whole thing. I’m curious if she knows this about me, and if she’ll be hyper-vigilant about my fucking shoebox. Or if she’ll dig into them with childish glee. It fascinates me that she has a different relationship with these letters than I do. I’m willing to surrender my obsession, just because she fascinates me.