Burning Man (32 page)

“You said Klein was a bully. Was he a terrible human being?”

“He was arrogant and full of himself, but it’s hard to imagine that he deserved to die like he did. That’s why I need to understand the killer’s hate. What makes someone hate with such virulence?”

“Hate is arguably the strongest of all the emotions. It is nourished in the darkness of the human soul. Hate is fueled by anger, whether it is rational or not.”

“The killer’s hate was personal.”

“If that’s the case, then there might have been pathology involved.”

“Meaning what?”

“The perversion of love is hate. One of Newton’s Laws of Motion is that for every reaction there is always an equal and opposite reaction.”

“There’s something to that, but I still can’t put my finger on it.”

“Did you ever hate anyone?”

“I hated myself.”

“And why was that?”

“I could have saved Jenny’s life. I could have insisted that she go see a doctor earlier than she did. I could have been less absorbed in my own work and seen how sick she was.”

“You blamed yourself for her death?”

“Sometimes I still do.”

“You punished yourself. I know that. Did you ever think about killing yourself?”

“I tried to do it indirectly.”

Seth nodded. He had been there and knew that I had. Sirius stirred and sat up, and then put his head in my lap. My guardian spirit wasn’t going to let me brood.

We sat in companionable silence. Outside, the wind was gusting and swirling. I did my best not to listen to its echoes. I reached the bottom of my glass and Seth went and got us both refills. When he came back, there was a fresh worm in his drink. We began talking about less weighty subjects, and our conversation and the drinks took the edge off of the night even while the Santa Ana winds howled.

Seth noticed my wince as he consumed another gooey maguey. “It’s just a worm,” he said.

“You remind me of a character from the original Dracula film with Bela Lugosi,” I said. “Ever see it?”

“I
vant
to suck your blood,” Seth said in a bad Hungarian/ Transylvanian accent.

Instead of telling him that Lugosi never uttered that line I said, “Anyway, this poor guy Renfield is bitten by Dracula, which
causes him to lose his mind and get locked up in an insane asylum. And because he was bitten by a vampire, Renfield starts getting some strange cravings, so when he’s in the asylum he takes to eating creepy-crawlies.”

“And I’m supposed to be this Renfield?”

“If the insect fits,” I said. “One of the film’s classic scenes is when the guard at the asylum stops him from eating a fly and Renfield indignantly says, ‘Who wants to eat flies?’ And the guard says, ‘You do, you loony.’ Then Renfield tells him, ‘Not when I can get nice, fat spiders.’”

“You actually memorized that dialogue?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t, what with Renfield being your role model.”

“I wasn’t the one bitten by a vampire.”

I ignored the Ellis Haines reference. I didn’t want to talk about him anymore.

Outside the wind howled.

“It’s playing my song,” I whispered.

“What song is that?”

“It’s the song of the Scarecrow.”

“Scarecrow?” Seth asked.

“Dorothy’s Scarecrow,” I said. I tried to make light of my statement by attempting the Wicked Witch of the West’s cackle and saying, “How about a little fire, Scarecrow?”

Seth wasn’t sidetracked. “The Scarecrow was afraid of fire. Is that what you’re hearing—and fearing—with the Santa Ana winds?”

“You sound more like a shrink than a shaman.”

“The two disciplines are closer than you might think.”

“That’s nothing I’d brag about.”

“You haven’t answered the question.”

“I’ve already done my obligatory therapy, Dr. Freud.”

“And what did you get out of it?”

“I got exactly what I needed. A slew of mental health professionals agreed that I was fit to return to duty.”

“Did you lie to all of them?”

“I told them what they wanted to hear.”

“You haven’t told me what I want to hear. I know how you suffer. I’ve just been waiting for the time when you were ready to talk about it.”

Attempting sarcasm, I said, “And what is it that you think you know?”

“I know that you still burn.”

His words made me burn again—in shame—and in that instant any and all anesthesia from the alcohol disappeared.

“I often hear you scream in the middle of the night,” he said. “The way you scream and some of the things you shout make it clear you are reliving what happened the night you were burned.”

“Shit. If I’d known I was being the town crier, I would have gotten my room soundproofed.”

“That’s not the answer.”

“Neither is my being the village idiot.”

“Is it always the same dream?”

“It’s never exactly the same. I keep reliving different moments of our fire walk, but everything is so vivid it’s like I’m back there again. And in every dream I find myself burning up.”

“You feel the heat?”

“I am fucking on fire. That’s how much heat I feel. My mind and body so believe what is happening that there have been times I’ve awakened with blisters on my skin.”

“You are afraid of the fire?”

I reached for my scarred face. “That’s an understatement.”

“Fire isn’t always about destruction, you know. Many famous fire stories are about revelation, rebirth, and even resurrection.”

“The burn victims I know aren’t phoenix stories. None of us rose out of the ashes that way.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m very sure.”

“Fire has often been a messenger. It was out of a burning bush that Moses heard an angel speak. And despite the fire spouting from the bush, it was not consumed.”

“I saw lots of burning bushes. All of them were consumed and I never heard an angel talk to me.”

“Many of our myths are built on fire stories. Prometheus stole fire from the gods so that humans could become like gods.”

“And didn’t he get chained to some rock where he had his liver pecked out by a vulture every day?”

“That’s one version of the myth.”

“He paid quite the price.”

“So did you.”

“I know that. Once was more than enough. I’m tired of burning and burning and burning.”

“Maybe you haven’t allowed yourself to accept everything that happened to you.”

“You’re not going to start talking about how that fire caused part of my soul to escape and now it can’t find its way home, are you?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t.”

“I’ll talk about fire then, and how you need to make your peace with it. I’ve been asked to put on a program at this year’s Burning Man event. Why don’t you go with me? The atmosphere might be therapeutic for you.”

I had heard of the annual event. Every year, thousands of people gathered at a remote desert spot in Nevada and burned a huge wooden effigy of a man. It sounded about as appealing as an STD.

“Send me a postcard from there, would you?”

“Fire isn’t your enemy. It’s one of the revelatory elements.”

“If that’s the case, then maybe we should go out to your backyard and make a campfire and tell ghost stories.”

“I don’t think tonight’s a good night for that.”

“Damn, I was looking forward to s’mores.”

“Tell me about your fire dream.”

“I already told you: it’s not a dream. It’s a reliving of what happened.”

“And in that reliving have you ever made it to safety?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. It’s always the horror show but never the relief. In every dream the situation feels helpless. Sirius is always dying, and I can’t do anything to prevent that. The only thing I can do is burn to death with him.”

“That must be a horrible feeling.”

I nodded. “I feel responsible for his dying because I’m the one that put him in that position. And my only consolation is that Ellis Haines is going to die with us, but even that is anticlimactic.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“The idea of killing Haines doesn’t make me feel better. I know I have to stop him from hurting anyone else, but for me it’s just one last duty, like shooting a rabid dog. Feel free to call me Atticus Finch.”

“You suffered a trauma,” Seth said, “and the fire still has a grip on you because part of you remained behind in that place.”

“Yeah, I left behind about a pound of flesh.”

“You must accept the flames if you would gain enlightenment. You won’t be able to go forward unless you go back.”

“Thank you, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Instead of shrinking from the fire, use it for the purpose of illumination.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one that’s burning up.”

Both of us sat looking in our drinks for a minute. Seth didn’t see the world as I did. He believed as much in the invisible as he did the visible and saw dreams as journeys. I didn’t want to hear about befriending spirits or gaining empowerment through my travels, or at least I didn’t think I did. Still, when he’d spoken about enlightenment, I couldn’t help but dwell on what my fire dreams kept bringing to me.

“Each time that I awaken from the nightmare,” I said, “when I realize that the fire happened in the past and that Sirius and I are now safe, this strange thing happens.”

I stopped talking for a moment, trying to get a handle on how to explain the ineffable.

“I always think of what occurs as being the moment after. It’s the instant when the horror is behind me, and this kind of window opens and I get this clarity. I can’t really describe it any better than that. It’s like getting a glimpse into my world from the heights of Olympus. It almost feels like I’ve suffered in order to be able to see what I otherwise wouldn’t. Sometimes I call it my boon from the gods.”

“What kind of things do you see?”

“Lots of times they are just little things, but they always help me make sense of situations. Sometimes I remember something, and it gives me this insight I didn’t have before, or I’m able to apply it to some situation that’s been puzzling me. Lately the images have been more elaborate, though.”

“And you’ve been experiencing these images and insights with every fire dream?”

I nodded.

“Medicine for your burns. It is your armor for battling the dragon.”

“I’m tired of battling the dragon.”

“Then you must vanquish it.”

“I think you’ve mistaken me for Saint George.”

“All heroes resemble one another and are forced to travel a perilous path.”

“You’ve had too many worms tonight. They’ve gone to your head.”

“The Ojibwa called alcohol ‘firewater.’ It won’t stop the burning.”

I nodded and downed my glass of firewater. Then I thanked Seth for his hospitality, and Sirius and I headed home.

CHAPTER 19:
MAKE-UP SECTS

Usually when I don’t have a fire dream I awaken feeling renewed, but not this time. I awoke with a sense of loss. Lisbet Keane was the first woman that had made me feel alive in years. For a long time I had just been going through the motions of living, an actor playing the role of the old me. I didn’t want to go back to that tired role.

I went online and did a search. I had thought what I wanted would only entail the use of my credit card, but it quickly became apparent that I was out of my league and needed help. After doing a search of florists and determining that none of the twenty-four-hour cookie-cutter sites could help me, one particular florist and his claim caught my eye: “Whatever flower it is, no matter how rare, I will find it for you.” The floral shop making this promise was located in Connecticut.

It was a little before nine on the East Coast. The male voice that answered my call already sounded aggrieved, maybe because it was early in the morning, or it was Monday, or he just enjoyed acting put-upon.

“I’m calling from Los Angeles,” I said.

“My condolences,” he said in a condescending tone.

“I didn’t call for sympathy. I am looking for a particular flower. According to your ad, you can find it for me.”

“Oh, dear boy, some copywriter came up with that phrase. I am not the floral Mountie. I don’t always get either my man or my flower, but Lord knows I try.”

“Forget-me-nots,” I said.

“What was that you said? I forget.”

“I’d like a bouquet of forget-me-nots.”

“No, you really don’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“Have you ever seen a forget-me-not?”

“I’m looking at a picture of one on my computer right now.”

“The picture you are looking at was taken with an oversized lens,” he said, somehow managing to infuse a prurient edge into his words. “Forget-me-nots have small flowers that are difficult to appreciate without magnification.”

“I want to send the thought more than I do the flower.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I think I hear the wailing of disco past.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I wasn’t exactly being truthful. I did know what he was talking about.

“Do you want to sing it for me?”

“Sing what?”

“Are you afraid of your voice, or is it sentiment in general?”

“Both,” I admitted.

“Forget-me-nots,” he sang, actually hitting the high notes.

I interrupted before he could sing any more. “Okay, maybe I was inspired by the song ‘Forget-Me-Nots.’”

“Who recorded it?”

I played his trivia game: “Patrice Rushen.”

“She should have sung about pink hydrangeas. I can get you some beautiful pink hydrangeas.”

“Can you get me the forget-me-nots?”

“I don’t know.”

“Today?”

“You must be kidding.”

“I am afraid not.”

“All women love roses. I can definitely get those delivered today.”

I thought of baby Rose. Roses wouldn’t do. “My mind is set on forget-me-nots.”

“Do you understand that a bouquet of forget-me-nots is out of the question? They’re not flowering this time of year, and even if they were flowering, their flowers would be too small for a bouquet. My advice for you is to forget forget-me-nots.”

“What about a forget-me-not plant?”

“What kind of statement are you trying to make? That plant would have the appeal of Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. Even the Almighty overlooked forget-me-nots, or so the story goes. That’s how the plant got its name.”