Obscura Burning (3 page)

“A lighter.” The same one’s always in my back pocket. Not even sure why. It’s not like I enjoy Danny’s homemade cigarettes. I like fire. Dancing flames and the feel of heat licking at my skin. Raking hair over my face, I try to purge the thought from my brain.

“You had matches,” Danny says.

I shake my head and dig in my back pocket for the Zippo rip-off, complete with embossed skull and bones. I picked it up three years ago at a swap meet.

“Told you so.” He purses his lips and fixes me with his black-eyed stare.

In my fingers sits a book of matches from the Throbbing Strawberry motel, a dive just outside of town. I can’t ever remember being there. This is what a bottle of tequila will do to you.

“You OK?” Danny reaches for my hand. “You look like you’re gonna puke.”

I need air, need out of the stuffy car. I shove open the door and tumble onto the shoulder.

Kicking rocks around doesn’t change the fact that I can’t remember the details. The memory is warped, just random snatches. The smell of gasoline. Shira yelling something at me, probably not to be stupid. The crackle snap of burning wood. That unbearable heat and the stench of frying flesh.

“I don’t remember.”

“Still nothing?” Danny leans across the seats.

“I don’t even remember having matches. I thought I had my lighter.” The breeze blows a scrap of paper against my legs. I unfold it. Burning crosses and white light pouring out of a bloody sky.
Repent, sinner. Embrace the True God. The end is nigh…
Cliché bullshit.
I scrunch up the leaflet and toss it over my shoulder.

“Matches. I still tried to grab them outta your hand,” Danny continues. “You really don’t remember nothing?”

“You want to tell me about that night?”

He taps his fingers on the dash and shakes his head. Truth is, his memory isn’t all that clear either. I wasn’t the only one drinking.

I sniff and lift my head to look at Danny.

“I’m sorry,” I say, like I’ve said a hundred times before. I’ve meant it every single time.

“Get back in the truck, Kyle.” He sits back in his seat, staring straight ahead. “We’re gonna be late. I don’t wanna miss my session.”

In this life I’ve still got two perfectly normal balls, so I man up and get back in the truck.

“So…” Danny starts every joke the same way. He puts on his joke-telling voice and I prepare for the incoming lameness. “These two peanuts are strolling down a big city alley at night and one was assaulted.”

I grin despite myself. “Lame as piss, Dan.”

“Yeah, but you almost cracked a smile. So, what do you do with epileptic salad?”

“Can salad even be epileptic?”

“You’re killing me, man. No guesses?”

I shake my head. If I look at him now, I’ll lose it and
will
end up killing him in a tangle of car parts.

“You make a seizure salad.”

I chuckle and he pokes my cheek, smack center of the dimple. His touch causes pleasant tingles up and down my right side.

“You’re prettier when you smile.” He traces a finger around the edge of my ear, tucking away loose strands of hair.

“No distracting the driver.” I try to keep my eyes on the road as Danny’s hand wanders down my body. “And what’s the point? Not like we can have sex anyway.” At least in the other world, Shira can feel me touch her. Below the waist, Danny’s just numb.

“Just ’cause I can’t get it up doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get any.” Danny’s fingers squeeze and I white-knuckle the steering wheel to keep us on the road.

Thirty minutes later we pull into Sully’s Fitness Center and I park in the disabled zone. It’s swimming today, and I can’t wait to shuck my clothes and dive into cold water. Must be around a hundred and twenty degrees. The cruel sun bakes the earth and forces every last drop of moisture out of the dust.

There are white leaflets tacked to the notice board outside the entrance. More burning crosses and supernovas meant to depict the end of the world, meant to terrify us into repenting. Damn whack jobs are everywhere, believing Obscura’s going to bring about Armageddon.

“Morning sweetie. Pete’ll meet you at the pool,” the receptionist croons as I wheel Danny into the cool of the locker room. Pete’s a physical therapist, built like a tank and not shy about showing off his ripped abs and chiseled ass in the tiniest snatch of polyester I ever saw on a man.

We change as quickly as paraplegia allows. I avoid touching the scar down Danny’s spine where they cut him open trying to put his vertebrae back together. There are burn scars too. Not as bad as mine in that other reality, just a smear of smooth flesh where the smoldering beam fell on him.

The St. Anthony medal dangles on a leather thong around Danny’s neck. He never takes it off, not even for swimming. St. Anthony—the patron saint of lost things. Maybe I should get me a medal, although I think St. Jude would be more appropriate.

Pete meets us besides the pool. “Hey, Daniel. Feeling Olympic today?”

Danny’s smile doesn’t touch his eyes. “Always, Pete.”

I relinquish Danny into Pete’s burly arms and head over to the noninvalid pool to swim laps while he goes through the motions of rehabilitation.

The lanes are empty. With the pool to myself, I wonder if anyone would notice if I disappeared below the surface and never came up. They say drowning’s a terrible way to go. I can’t imagine it feels any worse than burning to death. But that happened in another life, and the memories of pain are dimmer when Danny’s around.

There wasn’t even a funeral for Shira. Just her mom, stinking of gin, tossing her daughter’s ashes on the sand so she could join her Navajo ancestors. I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her that Navajo tradition dictated a burial to ensure safe passage to the afterlife. There hadn’t been that much left of Shira anyway, maybe not even enough to bury.

My lazy laps become frenzied sprints. For weeks I’ve wanted to tell Danny about my double life. It just seemed like even more of a betrayal somehow. I glance over to the kiddie pool and catch Danny’s eye. He winks, and something inside of me shrivels up.

By the way, Dan, I live half the time in this other reality. You’re dead and I’m fucking Shira. Just thought you should know.

A squeal and smack as a body hits the water, showering me in spray. The form swims below the surface, popping up in the next lane beside me.

“Sorry, did I splash you?” a girl asks, her face obscured by goggles.

“You’re not supposed to jump in, you know.” I sound like a ten-year-old brat, but I’m not in the mood for chitchat with strangers.

She removes her goggles. Hazel eyes smile before her lips do. She looks Latino even with her blonde hair.

“I did say sorry. Just couldn’t help myself. Feels so good getting wet, doesn’t it?” She does a backflip and returns to the wall.

I keep my gaze on Danny.

“Poor guy, huh? But not bad looking…for a retard.”

“Bitch.” I haul myself out of the water.

“No, wait. Come on, can’t you take a joke?” she calls after me, but I ignore her.

I spend the last ten minutes of Danny’s session watching from the side of the pool with only my feet in the water. I don’t want to look at Pete, at his fine physique and the way his fingers squeeze Danny’s limbs. My gaze wanders back to the girl. She’s swimming laps, moving like an otter in the water. I’ve never understood why pretty girls have to be such bitches.

Session over, I wheel Danny back into the locker room. There’s a private shower for wheelchair users. I lock the door behind us.

“Good session?” I ask.

“Yeah, Pete works me hard. It’s good though. I’m making great improvement.”

“You going to walk again?”

Danny looks at me; a flicker of something like anger crosses his face and then he smiles. “I’m still gonna run circles round you. Just you wait, Kylie-boy.”

He aims the handheld showerhead at me, squirting me with warm water. I flinch and gasp as the hot water hits my skin. For a moment I’m burning, a thousand fire ants burrowing into my skin, my flesh melting…and then it’s over. Danny’s expression is perplexed.

“You OK, man?”

“Fine, just wasn’t expecting it to be so hot.”

Danny sprays himself and his frown deepens. “Did you take my advice and go talk to someone?”

Taking the shower spray from him, I rinse myself off and rinse his hair before untangling my own.

“You mean like talk to a shrink?” Fat lot of good the head doctors did me as a kid. It was growing up and not their prescription meds that stopped me lighting fires.

“Yeah, or someone. Anyone.”

My folks aren’t believers in that sort of thing. If it hadn’t been court mandated, I never would’ve seen the shrinks in the first place. My dad believes in alcohol, and my mom believes in denial. Going to a shrink to help me mourn my dead best friend—either of them—hasn’t ever come up, least not in this reality. Mom suggested I see someone in the other reality, but if I tell a head doctor what’s been happening to me, they’ll dope me up again and put me in a padded cell for good this time.

“Not really.” I shrug and remove my swimsuit. Danny’s hand is against my thigh, his fingers brushing my hip.

“Maybe you should think about it,” he says, top incisors gripping his ample bottom lip.

“You’re a tease, Dan.” Warmth seeps up from my groin through my belly. I ache for him.

“Nope.” He pulls me closer and kisses my hips. Goose bumps flare across my body as his lips brush my skin. I don’t want to, but I can’t help myself thinking of Shira, of her chipped, nail-polished fingers tickling my scars, her tongue in my mouth and licking my chest.

“I’ll make you a deal.” Danny looks up at me. “I’ll give you a blowjob every day if you promise to help out with Shira’s memorial.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You’re totally getting the better end of the deal.”

His hands…I can barely breathe.

“OK, I promise,” I whisper as Danny nibbles my belly.

* * *

There’s no such thing as post-orgasmic bliss, just a feeling of emptiness and the overwhelming desire to nap. I feel shitty about the whole thing while wheeling Danny out to my pickup. We pass the notice board and I rip the leaflets from it, tearing up the pages and tossing them in the trash.

“They piss me off,” I say when Danny raises his eyebrows at me.

I’m about to heave him into the truck when the bitch from the pool saunters past, her wet hair plastered to her shoulders and her long, muscular legs topped by tiny shorts.

“Hey boys, need a hand?” She dips her bug-eye sunglasses to glare at me.

“We’ll manage,” I say, a bit too curtly.

“Thanks for the offer though,” Danny adds, always the gentleman.

“No problem. Not every day a girl gets to offer her services to a cute boy with neat wheels.” She winks and Danny laughs.

I’m ready to put my fist through her pretty little face and Danny just laughs it off.

“Well, maybe we’ll see you around.”

“Mya.” She extends her hand to Danny. “I swim on Wednesdays and Saturdays so maybe. Oh and tell your friend here to get a sense of humor.”

“If only you knew the lengths I go to, to make the guy smile.” Danny continues the flirtation.

“When you’re done, could we go home?” I fold my arms.

“Tetchy,” Mya says and sashays toward her car. There’s a tribal tattoo on her shoulder, a squirrel maybe. “See ya, boys.” She waves and smiles.

“What the hell, Dan?” I ask after I’ve dumped him in the seat and stowed his chair.

“You need to lighten up. I wish I could get it up, man, ’cause you need a good pounding.”

I blush, which only makes Danny laugh. My frown melts into a grin until I’m chuckling too. It’s easier to just laugh it off.

Out of habit, I turn on the radio and scan through channels playing anything but country. For once, the interference isn’t so bad and we drive home singing along to Pearl Jam’s “Alive.” I scream the final chorus. Screaming feels a lot better than crying.

Chapter Three

Danny’s dead

It’s Wednesday morning again.

Cornflakes; scraps of yellow cardboard polluting perfectly good milk. I wash them down with orange juice, dribbling a little from the corner of my mouth where my lips no longer form a smooth crease. From his cross fixed to the kitchen wall, an emaciated Jesus glares at me, making the cardboard cereal even more difficult to swallow.

I drag the paper over and skim the headlines: Obscura panic despite government reassurances that the world probably won’t end. Department stores got ransacked in Albuquerque amid fears of price gouging. People are really starting to freak out. There’s a snippet on page two about the situation in Iraq, how a bunch of American soldiers are demanding flights home to see family before Armageddon. A picture of the Eiffel Tower lit up with candles and strewn with flowers; a phallic offering to whichever god tossed Obscura into the sky. There’s a whole segment on what Obscura might be doing to the weather. Meteorologists predict the worst hurricane season in centuries, increased seismic activity resulting in more tsunamis and volcanoes. The world might not end, but that doesn’t mean humans won’t get wiped out anyway.

“What are you doing today, son?” Dad asks around the edges of the sports section. He should be scouring the classifieds for a job, not that there’d be much point if the world ends.

“The usual.” There isn’t a hell of a lot to do in Coyote’s Luck. Last couple of summers, Danny and I passed the days out by the dam near the reservation with Shira, or worked odd jobs around town, sometimes even helping out at the ranches farther away. This year we’d both been set for working at Black Paw, an eatery sporting kitsch Indian decor and a Mexican menu. Then the fire happened.

“Didn’t you have a job lined up?” Dad folds the paper and looks at me. His gaze doesn’t linger too long on my face before he’s studying his checkered napkin. Mom usually mediates conservations like this one, but she worked the night shift and is still passed out upstairs.

“You really think they’re going to want me serving kids their tortillas?”