“Me too,” she replies, halting my fantasies. I want to ask her more as I turn to study her pale face. I want to be a normal teenage boy on a Friday night trying to get some action, trying to get to the hottest party. Suddenly, her presence underscores how far removed I am from the normalcy of teenage life.
We sit in silence for a while longer, neither sure of what to say. The bus comes eventually, and I let her climb aboard first, saying goodbye to the dog and feeling my heart pang as it looks at me with sad eyes. It trots off, though, hopefully, to find a home. The bus driver dabs at the sweat on his forehead as he eyes us suspiciously, probably assuming we’re up to no good. I don’t know about Ashley, but I shift uneasily under his appraising gaze because his assumption is correct.
I choose a seat a few spaces down from her, afraid of looking overly eager to sit near her. She eventually asks me about math class and talks about some party that’s happening Saturday night near Chestnut Springs, but I only half listen. She’s beautiful. Mesmerizing, even, with her pale lips and a demure smile. Her voice lulls me in a comforting way. I think about what could be. But then I remember where my focus is. No girl is worth distracting me from who I want to be. Love or even lust isn’t worth it. We settle into silence again, the bus’s screeching brakes the only sound filling the air between us. Eventually, we get to the edge of Elmwood.
“This is me. Have a good weekend,” I offer. She smiles up at me.
“Oh, really? My mom lives in Elmwood. Cool. But anyway, yeah, you too,” she replies. And with that, I get off the bus, heading into the darkness of the town and thinking about how Ashley’s mom is in the center of my dad’s stomping ground.
Ashley is quickly forgotten, though, as soon as my feet hit the pavement. It’s perhaps risky business being a kid wandering in the town where an arsonist is loose. I need to be careful. I told myself over and over again that it was stupid to come here. Still, I couldn’t help myself. Just thinking about the fact he’s here makes me need to be here, too. Walking the streets where he walks, looking at the houses he looks at. It fills me with a palpable hope that both terrifies and comforts me.
How does he choose? I glance at the mansions, at the average homes on the left-hand side of the street. I eye all of the lights and the mailboxes. I wonder how he decides which ones deserve to go up in flames. I wish I knew his process.
I walk to the edge of the town, my head down as I remind myself to act natural. I keep my hood down so I don’t look as suspicious. The streets are desolate, a few lights here and there guiding my journey. Everyone is tucked away in what I imagine to be perfect homes, perfect lives judging by the upkept lawns and envy-worthy curb appeal. I peruse the homes, imagining flames lapping up the wooden siding, the vinyl. I envision front porches scorched and perfect window boxes filled with fire. Glassy eyed like a child looking in a storefront at Christmas time, I walk past the street where it happened, the house that ended with that baby dying. I so badly want to go and bear witness to the scene up close, but I know I can’t. They’ll be watching it carefully, even if it doesn’t seem like it. So many arsonists return to the scene to admire their work.
I know he won’t be there. My dad isn’t some rookie arsonist. He’s a master. And his handbook has taught me so much—one thing is you never revisit the exact scene except in your memory. You take vivid notes in your mind so you can replay the excitement there. But to return to the scene in this short of an amount of time is too risky. The police expect that.
Thus, I keep walking.
I don’t know what I’m hoping for. I don’t know if I think he’ll miraculously appear in the middle of the streetlight’s luminescence and embrace me. It doesn’t happen, though. He’s too smart for that, and my life certainly isn’t some cheesy movie. I trudge on, knowing I can’t start my work here, not yet. I have to practice first. I need to make sure I’m a master before I tackle the big leagues. I need to perfect my style, my craft before I dare to enter his playing field. When I play, it will be for real. It will be to make him proud. Still, glancing around, it’s nice to have a vision for the future, my ultimate goal. It has reinvigorated me and ascertained what I already knew—this is what I’m meant to do.
Readjusting my backpack, I pause in front of a quaint white house. It isn’t the mansions of the street before. It’s subtle in its regality, but awe-inspiring all the same. A wraparound porch draws the eye in, and a tiny balcony sits atop the roof, extending from what I presume is a bedroom. Fall florals surround the door, and the lawn is perfectly kept. It’s the American dream sort of home, the one I can only fantasize about living in. I imagine the family that lives there with their two children dressed in preparatory school uniforms. They probably eat breakfast together every morning in the little breakfast nook, the dad reading the paper before heading to his suit and tie job. The mother bakes apple pies on weekends and kisses the kids before they march out the door in a perfect line. They smile wistfully as they march to greet their certain futures that are filled with charisma, smiles, and trusting opportunities. They are the kids from the front row, not the back. They are the family who will stay together, who will never get lost from each other.
I exhale resentment as I memorize the picture-perfect house. Yes, it truly is the quintessential American family, the kind I used to dream about.
It is, in short, the perfect target. The perfect home to set ablaze. I can see it in my mind’s eye, the way the flames will lap up the siding, the roof, and the balcony. It will be so majestic, the blazing wreckage in the middle of a perfectly kept lawn. It’s like they’re keeping the lawn in line just to underscore the beauty of my destruction.
This will be the one, I know it. This will be it.
I squint to read the number on the mailbox. 312. 312 Morrison Lane. I commit it to memory, a mental tattoo to recognize the commitment. But as my mind is leaping with the possibility of my work, I startle. My heart stops, and I almost fall to the cement right there in the middle of my daydream. I squeeze the handles of my backpack tightly and inhale, knowing my life depends on my ability to stay calm.
Rule 5: The perfect masterpiece takes time.
I’ve seen the stories and scoffed at their work—the rushed arson. The sloppy craftsman. They always get caught. Worse than that, their projects are always so unimpressive. They take no pride in their craft, which is a dishonor to all of us.
It isn’t usually a matter of lacking knowledge. After all, learning the skill isn’t that complicated, I’ll be the first to admit. Once you’ve learned the technique, the accelerants, the burn patterns, it isn’t very difficult to make things burn. Anyone can make something smolder. It takes a master, though, to engulf it perfectly at the ideal time. It’s all about savoring the burn at the crucial moment. You have to set the flames at the optimum time to get the maximum impact and satisfaction. And most of all, you have to be wise enough to get away with it. You have to be brilliant to get away with it over and over again. Luck only goes so far in this path—then comes skill, planning, and passion.
From my observation, the arsonist who gets caught is the product of being over-eager. They are too excitable, too hurried. They don’t take the time to plan out the perfect spot. They don’t bide their time, observing and watching and studying others’ movements. They don’t pick the prime location to start the fire, and they don’t map out their exit plan. They have no finesse. They simply toss a match whenever the feeling moves them. And for some rookie arsonists, the pull of the fire is so strong, they stick around to watch it burn. That, dear one, is the biggest mistake of all.
I sympathize, as a fan of the fire. I understand the artist’s need to watch their masterpiece change, to observe the smoke etch into the night sky or the gorgeous blues or the clouds. I empathize with the arsonist who is caught admiring their work. It isn’t easy to pull yourself away from the hot beauty that is the fire set at your own hands.
But you must remember—this masterpiece belongs in your memory. The beauty of the fire is
n’t solely experienced close up. It’s in the energy leaving your hands with the strike of the match, and in the knowledge that others have witnessed and even marveled at your work. The true beauty of the fire comes with the knowledge that you will forever remain anonymous (if you’ve done your work well) and that a sense of mystical intrigue will encase your craft. This is where the actual, meaningful power comes from.
When you start out, there will be a desire to work fast. As soon as one fire is put out, you’ll itch to light another. And another. And another. The sight of those flames, the feel of that energy is the most addicting substance out there, at least for the arsonist. It’s like a heroin addict needing to feel that high one more time or the gambler who knows the next pull will be the one. Like a vampire needing more blood to survive or an alcoholic needing to relish in the familiar buzz, you will want to feel the adrenaline again as soon as possible.
Here’s the most important truth: when you rush the flames, you get sloppy. And when you get sloppy, you get caught. Do not be overzealous in your work. Do not try to do too much too fast. It is not a race or a competition. It is your journey. Do not let the call of the artwork overpower your planning, your rational thinking, your strategy.
Fire setting is an elegant game of chess to be carefully mapped before you pick up your first piece. You must put in the work ahead of time, like any good craftsman. You must do the prep work to reap the rewards of your beautiful success. No one takes the King without first planning the moves of the lesser pieces.
Do not rush the fire. Meticulously plan your course of action.
Because if you get caught, your work will be forever snuffed out. And there’s nothing worse than an arsonist without an ability to scratch the flaming itch in the palm of their hands and the center of their hearts.
Chapter Twenty
Jameson
The seat is stiff underneath me as I clutch my backpack, staring out the window that has fogged over from my exhalations. The boy in me wants to reach up and draw something in the window fog, but the gravity of the situation keeps my arms at my sides. The familiar streets whir by as I stare, rehashing the speech I’ve already given to the cop.
I was meeting up with a friend to play video games. I forgot the address. I forgot my phone. That was it. Stick to the story.
I hadn’t thought it would work when I enunciated the phrases as calmly as I could muster. I looked him in the eyes, though, and let my heated cheeks fill with color. It would be okay for him to think I was shy and nervous. I stuttered a bit.
My head swarmed with fears, but luckily, there was no proof of any wrongdoing. I hadn’t brought my supplies other than the lighter resting at the very bottom. Inside my backpack were some chips, a few books, and a gaming controller I’d chucked in my backpack for this very reason. I silently lauded myself for my brilliance. I’d had a cover story even when I thought I wouldn’t need it.
Still, I’d let myself get caught wandering the neighborhood where my father was working. It was embarrassing. I couldn’t even pull off scoping out the place. How would I ever accomplish greatness he would be proud of?
The officer had followed up with more questions, then insisted on calling my mother.
“She’s at work,” I’d replied. He eyed me suspiciously but eventually deemed me harmless. He ordered me to get in so he could give me a ride home. I wasn’t in the position to argue, I knew, so I obliged, somewhat thankful to be getting a ride home instead of walking.
The officer now eyes me warily from the rearview. I assume he wants to take me home so he can scope me out a bit more, make sure I’m not some crazed arsonist. I order myself not to smile. Sometimes, those in power can be so foolish, so oblivious. They don’t see what’s right in front of them because they have no imagination. No wonder they haven’t caught him. They don’t stand a chance against the brilliance of my father. Pride swells within me as I realize how good he is. The police in our area may as well give up now.
Maybe I haven’t screwed this up, I realize. Maybe this is good practice for when I’m in the big leagues.
When the officer pulls up to my house, I exhale. The car isn’t here. Mom’s not home. The officer opens my door for me to let me out. I thank him for the ride.
“Hey, Jameson,” he says, and I look up at him after hearing my name. He’d asked it back during our exchange.
“Yeah?” I ask, adjusting my hands on my backpack handles, feeling like a child being scolded.
“Stay out of trouble, kid. Okay?”
I look into his blue eyes and wonder what he’s thinking. Does he look at me with pity, eyeing the front porch piled with garbage bags we haven’t taken out, the front window covered with a trash bag because we can’t afford a new one? He probably sees the peeling paint, the sad excuse for a house, and figures I’m some lonely, forgotten kid who has no fucking chance of making it out of my sad life. He’s probably right. But does he think his words are a genuine way of changing my life? I want to spit at his feet. He has no idea who I am or what I’m capable of. He’s a clueless moron who will never know real power.
“Okay,” I reply simply, painting on the innocent kid act I’m learning to master. “Thanks again.”
He nods, but he watches me as I back away. I head to the door and pluck my house key out of my backpack. I’m inside with the door locked when I finally see the lights pull away. I take my backpack to my room, thinking about what a crazy night it’s been. I wanted to be alone, to study the neighborhood and make plans. Dad’s handbook talks about not rushing it, about being meticulous in preplanning. But tonight, I got sidetracked at the bus stop and by the officer. It’s frustrating. Still, I know I have to be patient. I need to do it right. I plop down at my desk, pulling out the handbook to study some more.
***
“What the hell happened, Jameson?” a voice bellows from the front of the house. I startle awake, taking in the scene. I’m at my desk, hunched over an open page of the book. My lamp shines on me. I see her at the doorway to my bedroom out of my peripherals. I hurriedly shut the book and shove it under my math book, my heart racing.
“Jameson Wills, what the fuck did you do?” I turn to see her scowl. Her hair is a frizzed-up mess, her makeup smudged. She looks both flushed and pale somehow. I don’t dare ask where she’s been.
“What?” I ask. It’s always better to see what they know before you offer information.
“Mr. Goslin stopped me in the driveway to tell me the police were over here last night. What the hell?”
“Sorry, it was a misunderstanding,” I reply, shaking my head. I don’t want Mom wrapped up in this. It’s my work. I don’t want her involved.
She takes a step forward. “What happened? Tell me now.”
Her hands are shaking, and her steps are erratic. I study her, wondering what’s going on. Is she terrified she’s losing me to the dark side like she did Dad? That makes sense, I guess. I feel a bit guilty now.
“Mom, it’s fine. I was going to hang out with a friend and got a bit lost. That’s all. The officer saw me wandering in the dark, questioned me, and when I explained, he offered to give me a ride home.”
“So he thought you looked suspicious. They only stop if you look suspicious, you know that, right? You fucking idiot. Just what we need. Now you’ve got a target on you. They’re going to keep an eye on you, on us. Bloody hell.” Her words tumble out, her hands yanking her hair out so that she looks even more frazzled.
“Mom, it’s fine,” I reply. But she doesn’t hear me. She’s lost in her world like I’m used to. This one, though, isn’t marked by stoicism and anger. It’s marked by pain and fear. I see her through a different lens, though, knowing what I know now. She’s been through a lot. She has to know who he is, and even if she doesn’t, she must suspect there was a darkness in him. Does she worry that darkness spread to me? Does she wonder about where he is now, and if he’ll come back?
I stand from my chair, edging toward her. I reach out a hand to touch
her shoulder. “Mom, it’s okay. Really. We’re going to be okay. I’m not in trouble. I won’t get in trouble.”
She calms at my touch, looking back into my eyes. We are quiet for a moment as the tension, the fear dissipates. I don’t taste it in the air any longer. I only sense detachment, the kind that is familiar to both of us, that marks both of us.
“I don’t want any trouble for us. I’m trying, Jameson. I’m trying to keep you safe and protected. I don’t want you to have this same life. I don’t. You deserve more.”
I do something uncharacteristic, then. I reach for her and wrap her in a hug. I feel the frailty of the woman who carries herself so strongly. I let her melt into me, her skin warm and her cheeks wet with tears. She smells of cigarette smoke and roses, a scent that’s become comforting to me over the year. She frantically wipes at her face. I want to tell her it’s okay to cry, to be vulnerable, but I stay silent.
Eventually, after a long moment, I squeeze her a little tighter. “It’s okay,” I murmur.
And then, she lets it all go, a vulnerability emanating from her I’ve never seen. The woman I know as strong and cold finally lets all the pain and questions out onto my shirt. It exits her body through her racking sobs. I wonder how long it’s been since she’s let any of it out. I want to tell her I understand. I want to soothe her with words about how he was a complicated man and that unless you have the pull in your bones, you can’t understand.
I don’t, though. I let her cry on me, a proxy for a man who left her in his shadows for a passion she could never begin to fathom. But I get it. I do. I stand between both worlds, for not long ago, I belonged only to hers. I was an empty vessel going through the motions of life and just surviving. Now that I’ve seen his world, though, I understand what it’s like to be drawn so strongly to a passion, to be called so intensely that everything else fades.
The Arsonist's Handbook Page 9