How to Set Yourself on Fire

by Julia Dixon Evans

  “Go out on your porch,” I say.

  “Are you here?” she asks, hesitant. Perhaps my drop-in confessional caused a little post-traumatic stress.

  “No, just go look at the sky.”

  “What?”

  “Mom. God,” I say. Vinnie stifles a laugh. I attempt to shoot him a glare, but I end up grinning. Why is this woman making mother-daughter intimacy so difficult? “Just go look. I’m sitting on my front step, and when I looked up at the sky, I thought of you.”

  “Oh, that’s nice, honey,” she says. “Hang on.”

  I hear shuffling. I hear the phone drop to the floor with a thud. I hear her voice in the distance say, “Shit.”

  Then, after an awkward pause, during which Vinnie and I stare at each other, almost daring someone to comment on this ridiculous phone call:

  “Okay, I’m outside. Oh look! Venus is out.”

  “Thank you!”

  “What?” she says, puzzled.

  “That’s why I’m calling. I wanted to know if that was a planet.”

  Vinnie scoffs.

  My mother’s pride positively drips. “Well, I’m so glad you thought of me.”

  “Anyway, I’d better go. Just thought I’d call. Enjoy the sky,” I say, and I hang up before she says anything to ruin my finest moment as a daughter in the last twenty years.

  “Shut up,” I say to Vinnie. “Save it.”

  “I’m not saying anything,” he says.

  “Exactly,” I say. “But hey, look! Venus is out.”

  It’s hard not to smile, stupid big. This is the happiest I’ve felt in a long time. I feel completely in control of the feeling and at the same time like it hinges upon the galaxy, upon the planets being lined up just so. Upon the Big Bang. Upon dark matter. Upon astrophysicists. A man once fell in love with his married neighbor. A man once told her so. A man once let his heart and everybody’s heart get cracked wide open and crushed into thousands, millions of tiny, splintery pieces.

  Nobody is ever in control. I’m not in control at all. I’m probably not even really happy. I’m not happy at all.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  I ENTER HIS NUMBER again. Jesse. I want to call him so badly, and I hate myself for this. It’s beyond my understanding and control. The only thing that works is to remind myself that it’s too soon, and I’ll be more likely to maintain my very limited access to this man if I space things out. It’s satisfactory. It’s not even that I’m all the way crazy. It’s that there’s a crazy person who lives inside me. Sometimes she’s bigger than me. Sometimes she’s all there is. Sometimes it’s all I have.

  I put the phone down.

  Frontline is on PBS. I’m not even interested. I haven’t changed the channel in years. I turn the television off instead and sit outside in the cold. It’s a nice feeling. Tomorrow I’ll need to show up to work. Tomorrow I’ll need to somehow make a life for myself. Rosamond managed to show up for her life. She managed to keep going, to continue being a mother, to continue being a wife, despite everything being upside down inside.

  “You’re up late,” I say to Torrey as she comes out.

  “Yeah, I can’t sleep.”

  “Me neither. That’s a lie. I haven’t even tried.”

  We stare at each other.

  “Sheila, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” I say. I hate that question. It’s never a good thing.

  “Why won’t you go visit Harold’s next house?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Well, I’ve driven by it.”

  I wasn’t expecting to admit that.

  “I wasn’t expecting to admit that,” I say.

  “You’re weird,” she says. “I mean, you’re like this perfect mix of mysterious and secretive and then also? You’re always such a fucking oversharer.”

  “Oversharer,” I repeat.

  “Oversharer. You say the weirdest shit.”

  “I like to be honest with you,” I say, smiling. “You’re my Rosamond.”

  “Oh, great,” she says. “For the record, next time I want to be the successful, decorated war veteran doctor, and you can be the stay-at-home mom.”

  “I’m never having children,” I say. “But whatever. A mother is a noble profession, too.”

  “I like that dress,” Torrey says. “That’s the one that was Rosamond’s, right?”

  I look down and smooth out the skirt. I hadn’t realized I was wearing it.

  “Try to get some sleep,” I say.

  “No, tell me. Why won’t you go find out once and for all?”

  “Find out what?”

  “If there are other letters. Rosamond’s letters. The match.”

  “Oh, Torrey. You’re such a romantic for such a young person.”

  “It’s not romantic. It’s physics,” she says. “For every letter there is an equal and opposite, you know…letter.”

  I laugh. “I’m assuming for every three of old Harry’s letters, there’s one from her.”

  “I think I would put money on that bet,” she says.

  I don’t say anything for a while.

  “We should just go visit them,” she says, eventually.

  “Them?”

  “Harold. Maybe he has a wife.”

  It had never occurred to me that Harold might have moved on. He is so genuine in his correspondence. His love seems completely unfailing and pure. He might be the only person in the entire universe capable of such love. He might be the only person in the entire universe who actually means it when they say they’ll never love again.

  “He doesn’t have a wife,” I say.

  She kicks back in the chair. “Now who’s the romantic?” “It’s not romantic. It’s stupid, actually. Harold could have been really happy.”

  “What?” she says, slightly offended.

  “I mean, it was almost purely accidental that he befriended my grandmother in the first place. It was her luring him into a friendship. She could have cited decorum and walked away. He could just as easily have latched his ripe little heart onto another woman.”

  “Ripe little heart, that’s adorable,” Torrey says.

  “You know what I mean, though?”

  “Yeah. If he had never met Rosamond, maybe he would have just loved the next woman.”

  “Yeah.”

  I get the sense that neither of us quite believes it.

  “How old do you think Harold was?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. Well, I have my theories. I have an age range.”

  “Oh yeah?” she says.

  “Well, he served in the war. If he was drafted, he’d be between eighteen and twenty-six in 1943 or so. So that puts him somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-three when he met my grandmother in 1950. Rosamond was…” I count with my fingers and I don’t try to hide it. “She was twenty-two in 1950.”

  “Jeez,” Torrey says. “Young mother.”

  “Everyone was a young mother back then.”

  “So, he was a bit older than her.”

  “It would have been socially acceptable, even if he was on the old end of my spectrum. Let’s just say he was thirty.”

  “My mom was thirty when she had me,” Torrey says.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. My dad was way younger.”

  “Really? Wow. Vinnie was a really young daddy. And a young groom,” I say, with wide eyes.

  “I know. My grandma on my mom’s side gave me their wedding album after she died. I’ll have to show you one day when he’s not home.”

  I laugh. “He’s always home. Go to bed, Torrey.”

  “Promise me you’ll think about going to see Harold. Or, Harold’s house. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Fine, I’ll think about it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Me neither,” I say with a grin.

  Torrey, to her credit, laughs with me.

  My dear Rosamond, my love,

  Thank you for your letter. I will treasure your correspond
ence for the rest of my life. These letters will always bring me joy, even when I feel frustration, too. The joy will always be stronger.

  I must see you again. It seems dishonest not to tell you that, while writing to you is cathartic and pleasant, it’s increasingly not enough for me. I’m spoiled, my hunger ever stronger.

  My sister Delilah and her family are here visiting. Have you heard the extra noise coming from my side of the fence? Have you heard the baby’s squeals? It makes me miss you, having a full house. Having a child in the house. Having a woman in the house.

  Ever yours, increasingly mad,

  Harold

  His remaining letters degenerate quickly. All brief, all clingy, somewhere between sweet and insane. I wonder about Rosamond’s replies.

  I wake to a knock on the door.

  “Sheila?”

  “Torrey?” I ask. I have no idea what time it is. I’m still dressed. I must have dozed off reading. “What time is it?” I say, my throat croaky.

  “Can I just come in? It’s freezing out here.”

  “Yeah, it’s open.”

  She bursts in. She’s dressed. “It’s six, chill. I’m just getting ready for school.”

  “I don’t need to chill,” I say. Which is sort of true. I’m lying down on my bed already. I’m wearing a dress I’ve been wearing for days. Weeks. Sometimes I wear other things.

  “Sometimes I wear other things,” I say out loud.

  “You don’t have to explain yourself, lady. And I can tell you need to chill out. You’re panicking about the time.”

  “Not really panicking,” I say. “More of a curiosity. Okay, I was panicking, but more about being the kind of person who never knows what time it is.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s a gift,” Torrey says. “To not worry about the time.”

  “What do you want?” I ask. I realize after it comes out that it sounds mean.

  “I just saw your lights on, figured you’d been up all night,” she says with a smile. “Glad to know you got some sleep for once.”

  “Thanks for ruining it,” I say.

  “My pleasure.”

  “So?” I say. I want her to leave, but I also want to cook breakfast for her.

  “Whatcha reading?”

  “My God, Torrey. What do you think?”

  “Which ones?” she specifies.

  “The mad ones.”

  “Mad-angry?”

  “Mad-crazy.”

  “The short ones?” she asks.

  “Yeah, the last ones.”

  She makes a noise like the air leaving her, like an “Oof.”

  “How’s your boyfriend?” I ask. “Want some breakfast?”

  “No and yes.”

  “No isn’t an answer to ‘how,’ Torrey.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend! Jesus Christ.”

  “I mean your friend. The friend. The boy,” I say. I open the fridge. “Fried egg?”

  “Sure. My friend is fine. It’s only a matter of time, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  Lids fall out of the cabinet as I pull out a skillet. The noise is deafening and I’m sure if Vinnie wasn’t awake yet, he is now.

  “Before he makes other friends. Boys.”

  “You think he’s just using you?” I ask. “Until he finds something better?”

  “Well, not necessarily better. Just more gender appropriate.”

  “Come on. This is the twenty-first century. There are no gender inappropriate friends anymore. Chin up,” I say.

  The eggs crackle. Toast pops.

  “This is basically the only food I have in the house right now,” I say. “You came over for the right meal.”

  “Can we go today?” she asks. She seems nervous.

  “Go?”

  “To Harold’s.”

  “You know what?” I ask, turning quickly to look right at her. She glances quickly to the side before matching my stare.

  “Um,” she says. “I actually have no fucking idea what you’re going to say. I never do.”

  “Watch your language, kid,” I say. “And yes. Let’s go.”

  “What?!” she squeals. “No fucking way!”

  She jumps up from the couch and rushes toward me. It doesn’t take long in my tiny house, but she’s suddenly right next to me, and her arms are around me, and she’s hugging me, like really hugging me, and I think I’m hugging her back.

  “Oh God,” I say.

  “I’m excited,” she says, defensive.

  “It could suck.”

  “I know. It could also be great.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and I can’t hide my smile. I hand her a plate. “Now eat your fucking egg.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  IT’S NOON NOW AND Torrey is still at school. I can’t explain why, or even identify what is happening as it’s happening, but I’m putting on shoes and walking out to my car. Surely I’m not going to Harold’s house without her. This is a dick move. I should stop.

  I turn on the car and drive. If I breathe deep enough I can still smell the dead sunflower from my grandmother’s funeral.

  It’s alarming how close the house is to mine. I don’t stop. I keep driving, home.

  When I get home, Torrey is already there, and when she sees me return she seems to have the same faith in me that I had. That I’d pull a dick move.

  “Well? Did you go?” she asks.

  “No. Not really. I drove over and then just kept driving.”

  “Come on,” she says. She takes the shoebox from my hands. The instinct to pull it away from her is strong, but the truth is I am very, very tired and there’s a chance I don’t have the energy to move at all. “We’re gonna try again. At least you know how to get there.”

  We stand on the sidewalk in front of Harold’s next house, the place he fled to, the place he went to escape my grandmother. “It’s nice,” Torrey says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “What are you afraid of?” she asks.

  “I’m not afraid,” I say.

  “Look at you, you’re shaking.”

  I look at my hands. They’re trembling. I stare, slowly rotating my hands. I stretch my fingers as wide as they will go and the trembling subsides, but only for a split second.

  “I don’t know why they’re doing that.”

  I think of my grandmother, of her hands, purplish and pale, as she held the shoebox close to her body on her last day alive.

  My feet are stuck, like they’re weighed down by iron and steel. We stand there for a long time, on the sidewalk in front of a small but well-kept house. People walk around us with their dogs. A nanny has to push her stroller down the driveway and into the street.

  “How long are we going to stand out here?” Torrey asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. I don’t know.

  One minute later, the front door opens, just a little.

  “Come on,” Torrey says. She tucks the shoebox under one arm and reaches for my hand.

  As the door opens, a man steps out and stands in the doorway, watching the two of us. He looks to be my age, give or take ten years. I’m never very good at telling that kind of time.

  “Hi,” Torrey says.

  “Hi?” he says.

  Torrey nudges me.

  The man is attractive. He has nice eyebrows and a scruffy jaw.

  “Sheila, you need to talk,” Torrey says.

  “I’m looking for a man named Harold Carr,” I finally say. I look at my feet before looking up. The man looks surprised.

  “Harold Carr? That’s my great-uncle.”

  I smile. I can’t help myself. “Really?”

  “Yes,” he says. He smiles, too, and he has nice straight teeth. “Unfortunately, he is no longer here.”

  “You mean, he’s dead?” Torrey says.

  “Her mom just died,” I say. “She’s allowed to have no tact.”

  “Yeah, he died.”

  It takes a few seconds to sink in, but suddenly I feel like I’m crumbli
ng. I feel the cement of his front porch scraping my knees and I realize I actually am crumbling. I’m falling to the ground.

  “When?” Torrey asks.

  “Well, not even a year ago now,” he says.

  I’m crying. I can’t even comprehend what it feels like to cry. I touch my cheeks and they are wet and maybe this is what the robot feels when it becomes sentient. My throat hurts, my eyes sting. If only I’d been able to see him. Just once. To tell him. To tell him something. I think the most important thing that he’d need to know is that Rosamond kept his letters. That she cherished his letters, so much. But I don’t want to be the one to tell him. I want Rosamond to tell him.

  He’ll never know.

  “Harold knew her grandmother. Sorry, I don’t know why she’s doing this. I thought she didn’t actually know how to cry.” Torrey’s voice sounds kind, like she’s smiling.

  I wish I were more like her. I wish I had the poise and maturity of a twelve-year-old girl.

  The man kneels down in front of me. “I’m sorry. I’m sad too. He was my favorite relative. You would have liked him. Everybody liked him. He practically raised my grandma, his baby sister.”

  “Delilah,” I say. “The baby.”

  I look at his face.

  “This was Uncle Harold’s house for most of his life,” he says. “But he left it to me. I’ve been working on renovating it to sell it. I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to meet him.”

  “It’s not that,” I finally say, and the words feel like choking.

  Torrey sits down next to me. I sit too. The man sits.

  “I just wish my grandmother had seen him one last time. Before she died.”

  A little sniffle escapes Torrey. I look over at her and she is crying, too, her quaint, tidy Torrey tears.

  The man looks uncomfortable.

  “I’m Sheila,” I say. “This is…my neighbor. My friend, Torrey.”

  “I’m Simon,” he says but he still looks uncomfortable. “What’s the shoebox for?”

  Then he looks at it again, more closely. He stands up.

  “What’s the shoebox for?” he asks again, and he looks kind and threatening at the same time. “Tell me, who was your grandmother? She wasn’t Rosamond, was she?”

  I stand up. “Yes,” I say, amazed. “Yes!”

  We stare at each other. We stare at each other a long while. Neither of us are smiling.