Arson (2 page)

  

Chapter 2

 

 

IT WAS THREE IN the afternoon when Mandy walked into the ice cream parlor where Arson worked. He felt so unprepared that he found himself wishing something else came out, anything other than a surprised “Hello. How are ya?”

Mandy was beautiful, beyond beautiful. A few years ago, he had let himself believe she was an angel. As far back as he could remember there had been two types of girls: girls like Mandy Kimball, and the rest. During the school year, he avoided encounters with girls like her, that whole crowd, because fitting in always seemed like a challenge, an avoidable one. Besides, the school hallways and lunch tables mandated that conversation with losers like him was the closest thing to social suicide. But for some reason—a reason he couldn't even begin to fathom—Mandy risked her popularity on occasion and chose to notice him.

“That's gotta be the biggest ice cream cone I've ever had,” she said, eyes glowing.

“Sorry, I always do that,” he said, blinking about a thousand times.

“Do what?”

“Give pretty girls too much,” Arson replied, putting his antics on the line in hopes that Venus might actually find him in some way amusing. But in his white and black uniform, covered from nose to neck in a dozen different flavors of Tobey's Sinfully Sweet ice cream, he knew it was empty hope. He held his eyes low, hair curling against his forehead. Then he smiled, feeling like an idiot.

“You get paid to serve us ice cream, loser, not flirt with customers,” Mandy's friend said.

Eye games followed while Arson took the cone back. “Stupid me. Forgot the chocolate shots.”

Mandy sighed under her breath. “Here you go.” Reaching over the counter, she handed him a five-dollar bill.

“Don't even worry about it,” Arson said. “We're allowed to give away one free cone a day, compliments of the house, or maybe 
lair
 would be more appropriate. Always feel awkward telling people this has any resemblance to a home when it has 
Tobey's Sinfully Sweet Ice Cream
plastered across the front of the building with big red horns. Either way, consider it a gift.”

The friend, whom he'd later remember as Kim from third period biology, piped up again, snapping her fingers. “Excuse me, loser. Does it look like we care?”

Arson handed Mandy the cone again. Luckily, she and her friend were the last customers of the night. He didn't dare get into it with Mandy's friend, even though he wanted to tell her to just shut up and take the free cone. He followed their shadows out the door with interest, focusing on Mandy's. 
What does a guy have to do to get a girl like that?
 he thought.

Moments later, Arson flipped a switch on the wall, and the 
Closed
 sign illuminated the front window.

“Thanks, Arson. That was real nice,” he mumbled to himself, imitating Mandy's voice. “I really like you.” His shoulders sank. “Saying it to yourself doesn't make it true, only pathetic.”

He locked the door, put his face to the glass, and tried to get a better look at the girls as they walked, but he was too late. Feeling misplaced, another sigh blew out of him. He didn't fit into this world. Nights like these made him wonder if he was simply a manufactured piece of hardware, a mistake in the assembly line of humanity. He felt unique, but in a horrible way.

Arson suddenly started coughing. A sharp pain cut through him. It was the same sensation that had found him on the rooftop. Worse. Sweat dripped from the center of his palms, and they quickly got hotter. Arson raced to the sink, where scoopers sank to the bottom, the colorful assorted residue of a day's worth of ice cream rising to the milky top. Without even thinking, he submerged his hands in the cool water, and the pain went away.

 

* * *

 

Kay prepared herself for bed, always treasuring the short, fleeting moments at night with her husband.

She cleaned during the day, doing dishes, mopping floors, washing laundry—necessary qualities of all strong women, tasks lost on today's generation. For women, there was no room for something as selfish as a career. But child-raising, pride, and tradition, on the other hand, were what made a woman valuable. Respectable men were supposed to work and provide for their wives, lead. Everybody had their place. It was the way it had always been.

Before bed, Kay often stared into the vanity mirror for a while, gazing into the eyes that had grown so cold over the years. “I'm old,” she said, letting her hair down.

The gray static strands zigzagged past her shoulders and across her breasts. The naked woman in her mirror groaned.

Kay looked down and caressed the fatty parts of her skin. The saggy, undesirable folds infuriated her. She didn't want them. Who would? It had been years since she'd felt beautiful. She longed for the days of her youth. Simpler times. She remembered when she first began to blossom, confident with the blessing of puberty and inviting curves. Kay soon learned that the key to a man's heart rested not in his desire for good cooking, like her mother used to tell her, but through his eyes.

Men wanted beautiful women, and youthful beauty, for her, had been easy to lend. From early on, Kay had watched men's expressions melt when she walked into a room. She took their kisses and gifts as quickly as they came, but it was never enough. Deep down, she wanted romance. Marriage and children. After years of empty interests, her wish had come true.

The year was 1969, and Kay was not yet twenty-four. The world was full, free, and reveling. The war and rebellions seemed mere trifles when compared to lonely hearts. It was easy to get lost in a city, transported by its bright lights and sounds. Cambridge was a city that lit up at night, the way she lit up the second Henry Parker stumbled into a downtown pub, looking for a drink to calm an unsettled mind.

A radiant red dress hung off her silky shoulders. Kay's eyes were sparkling jewels. She was exquisite, even in memory. The man she'd come to call 
darling
 stood yards away when their eyes met for the first time. Slowly, he walked toward her and spoke. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I'm Henry. Where have you been all my life?”

A pathetic first line, but she could tell he was trying. Kay had known men before, talked and danced with them, but this stranger's boyish smile showed a calm unlike anything she had ever seen. She had believed herself to be unattainable—incorruptible—until that night. Fluttered heartbeats soon led to long walks and midnight dancing. In time, she fell in love. Kay knew that Henry Parker held the key to the future she'd always wanted.

But in a blink, it was gone. Kay hated the old shell she now wore, the one that wrapped around her like a coffin. Wrinkles and sagging flesh now corrupted her once flawless cheeks and inviting shape. She was unfit for romance. There was no room for beauty. Passion had fled, and the distant sound of youth called out to her from within the mirror. 
You're old, Kay
, it taunted. 
You're old
. She began to cry as the young woman continued the ridicule. 
A real woman is beautiful. A real woman knows how to love. You're not a real woman, Kay, not anymore
.

“Leave me alone!” Kay screamed back, reaching for a pair of shears and placing them to her stomach. “Get out, or I'll cut you out!”

Henry wouldn't allow it
, her reflection answered. 
Deep down, he still wants me
.

Kay's tired eyes lingered as she watched young Kay lie upon the bed, gently sliding into Henry's arms. Her Henry. She watched the image press her lips against his mouth as Kay shouted, “Stop! That's enough!” Young Kay glared back from the bed within the mirror, as if reaching through time. An unrelenting stare passed through the portals of then and now, with no way to go back or forward.

Kay fell to her knees, grabbed her face, and wept. She smacked herself twice until blood began to flow. The vindictive critic inside the mirror evaporated. Quietly, Kay got up, slipped her bathrobe on, and shut off the lights.

With soaked eyes, she crawled into bed. “Goodnight, my darling,” she cried.

 

Chapter 3

 

 

HE WAS LOST AGAIN. No matter how hard Arson screamed and fought to get out, he was stuck. Stretched out before him was a picture, moving slowly, of two young boys. He followed them down the street, the hum of the world surrounding them—tall, condemning lights set against a dark heaven, hopeful musicians and city merchants gambling away life's trifles and gifts, eager to make a quick buck. But no one could see him. No one could hear him.

The boys exchanged comic books, arguing about whose favorite hero was best and how they sympathized with the villains of the stories—those the world called 
monsters
 Arson reached out his hand to touch one of them on the shoulder, but his fingers pierced right through the faded flesh, out the other side, as if the boy were not there at all. They continued walking and talking. Arson could see it, though, impossible to miss. The thing Danny was promising would change the way they did tricks; what he said would initiate their evolution from kids to bigger kids nobody messed with. It would be just like the show 
Jackass
, he promised. The item was tucked away in Danny's back pocket, sticking out as he danced across their concrete stage, closer and closer to the night's violent performance.

Was Arson supposed to feel his heart beating? He tried waving his hands, begged his body to scream louder. As he turned to his left, Arson noticed a cab moving past, braking farther ahead. His eyes moved beneath the glaze and awe toward the scene about to explode.

Can I save them?

No.

Why?

You're not awake
.

Sweat trickled off his brow; the charm of curiosity and nervousness called him to the scene. Images wilted away and folded back. Timeless, careless.

And then he saw it, a spark in the distance. He didn't dare follow closely. No. He'd run again. That was all he could do. 
Don't think, don't breathe, just run
, as fast as he could.

 

* * *

 

Arson's eyes peeled back. He was awake. Sweat cradled his body in puddles as his chest rose and fell. His spine curled up into itself, and he started to shake.

“It's time for breakfast,” he heard from below.

Grandma's voice must have brought him to life again. It was Wednesday, which meant scrambled eggs and cheese served with crispy bacon, two slices of rye, and birch beer. Blinking, he took pleasure in what might come if only he could gather the strength to make it out of bed and downstairs.

In moments, he was clean but lethargically moving down the steps that led into the old-fashioned kitchen. It was Grandma's way of keeping the past alive. She was dressed, as always, in her traditional apron and stood beside the morning feast.

“G'mornin',” she said in a soothing voice. “How'd ya sleep?”

Arson found a seat quickly, reached for his fork, and drew the first scoop of eggs to his mouth, not saying a word.

“Well, love, do you feel like talking about what's on your mind?” She set the cup of tea down on the table.

“Good morning,” he finally said, lifting his eyes, but only for a second. He couldn't tell her it was happening again. She'd despise him for it. She wouldn't understand sweating so much it ached or hands burning without touching a stove, a fire, nothing. She had never seemed to get it before, and now it would only call out her hatred once more. No. Not today.

Grandma spent several moments absorbed in her newspaper. It used to bother him that the newspaper didn't change. Arson had never believed that reading the same sad news morning after morning could be healthy, but he refused to fight with her about it. No use. She looked at him now and then during breakfast as she turned its faded, crinkled pages.

“Where's Grandpa?” Arson said, hoping that talking about his grandfather might take the attention off him for a bit.

“He's out buying cigarettes,” she said. “Marlboro Lights; they're his favorite. It is a filthy habit, though, if I do say so.”

Arson took in the moment. He stared into her gray eyes and saw some warmth. The wrinkles on her cheek shaped a pleasant smile.

“You know 
him
,” she continued, “always up before the sun. Most nights I wonder if the man even sleeps. He's such a hard worker. You know, you might take some lessons from your granddaddy, love.” The glow he saw evaporated. “Are you ready to talk about how you slept? I know you didn't sleep well. Heavens! You kept me up nearly half the night. Whatever do you dream about, boy?”

“I'm fine, Grandma. It was nothing,” Arson whispered, gulping down the entire glass of birch beer, trying to avoid the subject.

Grandma got up and placed the bottle of birch beer in front of him. “If you don't want me to pry, I won't. I try to care about you, but you don't ever open up. I get so tired of your nonsense, wretch!” Suddenly, he saw her recoil. Arson could feel her eyes slithering up and down his frame.

Then she grasped her cup of tea as daintily as ever and took a sip. In a blink, she was changed. “How's breakfast, love?”

He couldn't understand how she did it, how she morphed instantly. Arson sighed and brushed off the rude remark before replying, “Delicious” with as much phony gratitude as he could muster. He found himself staring at random things around the room, anything to avoid her examination. She didn't mean those words she said, he was sure…he hoped. Unscrewing the soda cap, he listened for the gasp of air escaping. Then he filled his glass with more of the fizzy beverage. He proceeded to down another full glass, every moment more stifling than the last.

“Thank you, Grandma. This is the breakfast of champions.”

“Oh, it's nothing, love.”

Getting up from his seat, Arson belched. “Excuse me,” he said, covering his mouth in an effort to conceal his stomach's grumble. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a spinning plate coming toward him. It whirled and turned in the air so fast, he barely had the chance to duck. Startled, Arson dropped to the floor in a panic as the plate aimed at him smashed against a wall and shattered on the tile. “Grandma, what are you doing?”

“Let that be the last time you welcome foul behavior into this house. You're not some gutter trash from the streets. I expect better manners in the future.” In a flash, her lips stretched back into a smile, and she knelt down beside him, picking up the broken fragments off the floor.

Arson reached for some pieces. He could see her face change again.

“Leave it for Grandma, Arson,” she said. “You're gonna be late for work. Lord knows those crazy folks love their ice cream as soon as the cock crows. Get goin' and leave the fixin' to me.”

Confused, he walked outside. He could feel the morning creeping in, the taste of dew sticking to the inner flesh of his cheek. “Another day,” he sighed. Casting his gaze out against Lake Pocotopaug, he groaned with melancholy delight and caught a glimpse of the ripples harmonizing in the wake of restless fishermen.

Arson walked along the rocky path that Grandpa had created, time had weathered, and erosion had ruined before reaching the main stretch of road. Like always, nightfall would come, and the same road would usher him in again, back to the hell he knew as home.

 

* * *

 

He heard the sound of Mandy's voice. Like music, but softer. “Hey, Arson,” she said, walking into Toby's with another mindless clone.

“Traded the last model in for a new one, huh?” Arson grinned. “Anything interesting this one can do?”

Amidst a flurry of people, Mandy exchanged glances with him, not entirely sure what the comment meant. He pretended to read her mind and quickly gave her two scoops of double chocolate chip ice cream in a sugar cone and littered it with chocolate shots. After smiling a few times, Arson reluctantly turned to face paying customers.

Demands from impatient mothers dying to put something into their kids' greedy mouths came at him, as if each ricocheted off the last. Day in and day out, Arson noticed how each mother varied in the amount of her affection toward her child, most far too agitated by the time they stepped inside the parlor to be bothered with any nonsense from an ice cream scooper like him.

So Arson often studied them, observing the way some moms reacted toward their own children, and then he watched how they reacted with others, even complete strangers. In one moment, they were as lethal as black widows and the next as carefree as butterflies. It made him wonder what his mother would have been like if…

Before the thought could put a period at the end of itself, Mandy and the new clone were gone. He was unable to wave goodbye as they made their retreat past a swarm of frustrated housemothers. She and her friend took the free ice cream and escaped without even offering to pay. Not that he would have charged them. Mandy was very dear to him. Arson knew better than anyone that love was rarely fair, that just because you wished away a feeling didn't mean it left you. And he was now sure that no matter what she did or could ever do, he had no choice but to remain corruptibly in love with her.