The Firebug of Balrog County (9 page)

The History Test

T
he siege continued and Mom kept chugging along. By the start of my freshman year of high school our family had grown used to how thin she was, how little she could eat with her reduced stomach, and how determined she was not only to keep on living but to participate in the world. On good days, she'd have one of us fill up R
2
O
2
from the main oxygen tank and carry it out to the van for her and then she'd drive into Thorndale by herself to go shopping.

Mom was five-nine. As her weight dipped below one hundred pounds, then below ninety, her face hollowed out and her bones rose up from beneath her skin. When you hugged her you had to be careful (she cracked ribs frequently, sometimes just from coughing hard). When I hugged her, I'd feel the knobby ridge of her spine with my fingers. It reminded me of the outline of a mountain chain, or the armored plating of a small, vegetarian dinosaur.

W
omen joked with my mother about how they wished they could transfer some of their fat onto her and men treated her with exaggerated courtesy, holding doors
and carrying anything that needed carrying. When you went out around town with her, you could feel people staring, startled by her thinness, by the fact she was still among the living. Mom didn't mind—I think she felt that it was far better to be stared at, to be seen, than to be tucked away in a hospice with more privacy than anyone could possibly want.

In November, I got a call from Dad during my lunch hour. He said he was taking Mom to the hospital because she was having trouble breathing. More trouble than usual, he meant. My grandparents were going to pick up Haylee and he thought it might be a good idea if I also left school early and rode with them to the hospital.

The first thing I thought about was my American history class.

“I have a test next period,” I told him. “A big history test.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

Dad didn't say anything. I thought about all the long years of siege, all the false alarms and minor incidents.

“Is it okay if I take the test first and then show up? Sam's grandma can take me.”

I saw Dad standing in the living room with his phone to his ear, frowning.

“Sure, Mack. That's fine. We'll meet you at the hospital.”

“Cool. I'll get there as soon as I can.”

I took my test and then dutifully rode with Sam's grandmother to Thorndale. At the hospital, I found my father sitting with Haylee and Grandpa and Grandma Hedley in the waiting room. They all looked worn out, blasted. They told us Mom had been sedated and put on an artificial respirator. She couldn't breathe on her own anymore.

I'd missed her by an hour.

A Slow Afternoon at
Hickson Hardware

S
o you went on a drive?”

“Yes.”

“With her? That hot college chick from Lisa Sorenson's party?”

“Vroom vroom, baby.”

“And you drank … brandy?”

“Yes.”

“And you watched the sun set behind a field of cows. A beautiful, romantic sunset.”

“Yes, Sam. We did.”

“And you didn't put the moves on her?”

“Well—”

“Damn it, Mack. That was your shot. Your one shot at the big time.”

“I didn't really see an opening—”

“And you fucked it up. You fucked it up and now she probably thinks you're solid best friend material. You will now be BFFs.”

“I don't think you should be behind the counter. What if Big Greg checks in? That's his stool you're sitting on. He loves that stool.”

“Big Greg? That's what you're worrying about right now?”

“He can get mad, dude.”

“No he can't.”

“He yelled at this guy for returning a ladder. He'd already seen him using it to trim branches in his front yard.”

“Wow.”

“And then he pummeled him with both fists, Incredible Hulk-style.”

“That didn't happen.”

“And then he bellowed. He bellowed so loud Mr. Ladder's head exploded in a spray of meaty fragments. I had to use the wet mop and tons of bleach after that one. You wouldn't believe how much fluid the human body actually contains.”

“I bet I would.”

“Ha ha.”

“Jesus, Mack. Do you want to be a virgin forever?”

“Sam, it's not like she's dead.”

“Unless you killed her. Did you kill her, Mack? Is this really what we're talking about here? A country drive gone horribly wrong? Did you pitch her down a well? Chuck her into a bottomless sinkhole?”

“I'm laying a foundation here. It takes time.”

“A foundation of death.”

“What time is it, anyway? I think we've entered some kind of shadowland where the laws of time no longer apply. Purgatory.”

“Her nose is pierced, man. I hear those girls are crazy in the sack.”

“Why? Some kind of metal-poisoning thing?”

“Metal poisoning?”

“Metals can poison people. They seep into your blood.”

“Right. Whatever. The point is—”

“Sam, I know what I'm doing here. She's a headstrong little pony and is going to take some rustling.”

“That's your cowboy accent? You sound like a stroke victim.”

“You're just jealous I get all the ladies.”

“Wow, Mack. You went on a car ride with a girl who fell asleep. You're like a god of carnality walking amongst us mere mortals.”

“I wish somebody would stop in and buy something. Just one goddamn customer.”

“I thought you hated customers.”

“I do.”

“But without them, you're nothing. You're useless. Just a guy sitting behind a counter watching your life tick by.”

“One rake. That's all. I'd just like to sell one motherfucking, ass-poking rake.”

“Ass-poking?”

“It's October. People need to rake their lawns. This isn't some crazy hardware store dream, right?”

“Not as crazy as you getting it on with that goth chick.”

“That dream is beautiful, Sam. Not crazy.”

“If you say so.”

“C'mon, people. One rake. We can do this shit.”

The Graveyard

H
ickson's graveyard sits on a peninsula that juts out into a polluted body of water called Baker's Lake. The graveyard's first plots were planted along the outer edges of the peninsula, with subsequent generations of dead spiraling ever inward.

The edges of the peninsula have slowly eroded over time. A few years back, we had a big spring flood that swamped everything. Later that same summer, a fisherman on Baker's Lake reeled in what he thought was a whopper of a fish but turned out to be the rib cage of a four-year-old boy.

The boy had been dead for over a hundred years.

Company

T
wo days after my terrif
ying and erotic country drive with Katrina, I came home from work to find all the lights on and jazz music coming from the kitchen. The living room had been tidied up, the hardwood floor mopped and waxed to a glossy sheen. After years of my father's laissez-faire approach to housekeeping, the effect of this domestic glow was so disorienting I checked the framed family photos on the wall to make sure I'd entered the right house.

“Mack, is that you?”

I stuck my head through the kitchen doorway.

“There he is. There's my guy.”

Dad beamed at me from the stove. He was wearing a white chef's apron and his nice sweater. His round eyeglasses were fogged from stove heat.

“Hey Dad. What's up?”

“Dinner, buddy boy. That's what's up.”

“You're cranking the jazz, huh?”

“We're having spicy shrimp stir-fry.”

“Uh oh.”

Dad laughed and wiped his hands on his apron. “C'mon, it'll be great. I got a foolproof recipe from the Internet. It got sixty-eight five-star rev
iews.”

“Okay … ”

“And I bought Thai beer. It'll be like we're eating out.”

I glanced around the kitchen, noting the smell of rice pouring out of the rice cooker and the surprisingly clean counters, which were usually cluttered with dirty dishes and mangled bits of vegetable during Dad's stir-fry process. The kitchen table was covered in the good white tablecloth, had a small cattails-and-cheatgrass centerpiece, and had been set with four plates.

“We're having company, Mack. I invited a friend from work to eat with us.”

My chin snapped upward. The Druneswalds weren't the kind of people that had guests over for dinner—we settled for managing to feed ourselves and called it good. Sometimes Sam showed up and ate with us, but that was only on pizza Fridays.

“Her name is Bonnie. She's the new receptionist.”

“The new receptionist?”

“She's a real sweet lady. You'll like her, Mack.”

Dad had turned sweaty and pale, all friendly chutzpah evaporated. I felt both sorry for him and as if I were about to puke on the heavily waxed floor. A tight, sour knot was forming in my stomach, not unlike the feeling you get after being kicked in the balls. I could only imagine this Bonnie, this office temptress.

“Does Haylee know?”

Dad took off his fogged glasses and wiped them on his apron.

“Yes.”

“How'd that go?”

“Not great. I was hoping you'd go up and talk to her. I want Bonnie to feel welcome, Mack. I want everybody at the table.”

I swallowed, trying to wrap my mind around this request.

“You can have the rest of the beer,” Dad said in a flat voice. “Once dinner is over, you can have the rest of the Thai beer for yourself. I got a twelve pack.”

Veggies sizzled in the wok. Dad fluffed the stir-fry with a spatula and I rubbed my eyes. Was all this actually happening? Dad was trying to bribe me with Thai beer? Dad had a new girlfriend?

“How long have you been seeing each other?”

“Two weeks,” Dad said, looking back at me from over his shoulder. “Two pretty good weeks.”

“Well,” I said. “Shit.”

I left the kitchen and went upstairs, my feet dragging beneath me. As I opened my bedroom door, I heard knocking on the front door downstairs. The jazz music faded away. I pictured Dad hoofing it to the entryway, no doubt wiping his sweaty hands on his chef's apron, wondering how his hair looked while a stranger stood on our front steps, waiting to be let
in.

I clos
ed my bedroom door, stubbed my toe on a stack of books, and lay down on my bed. Lying there, hands laced beneath my head as I studied the glow-in-the-dark star sticker constellation on my ceiling, I had three epiphanies in rapid order:

1. Mom was really dead, and she was not coming back. Not ever.

2. This Bonnie tramp was most likely the first real action my father had gotten in a crazy long time.

3. Free beer was free beer.

Dad called Haylee and me downstairs. I got out of bed, slapped my cheeks, and went into the hallway. I placed my ear against my sister's bedroom door and considered my best plan of attack.

“Go away.”

I didn't move.

“I can hear you breathing, doofus. You sound like a big fat stalker.”

I rapped gently on her door.

“Hayyy-leee,” I whispered. “It's me. The dinner fairy.”

“I said go away.”

“Why? I've come to whisk you away to a magical land of shrimp stir-fry. Please, take my hand and I shall lead you.”

“No. I'm not going down there. Not until his slutty goes home.”

“Hayyy-leee. Slutty is a harsh word, Hayyy-leee.”

“You're not funny, dork, and I'm not going down there.”

The sound of banging came from the kitchen. Spatula-on-wok violence.

“What if, Ms. Haylee Katherine Druneswald, I told you I have been authorized to slip you one—no, two—fancy Thai beers and look the other way? Would that change your mind?”

“No. I don't even like beer.”

I leaned harder against the door.

“You don't like beer? Really?”

“No. It's disgusting.”

“What if I drive you to the mall?”

A pause. Tentative movement on the other side of the door.

“Really? When?”

“Whenever you want, little lady. The Olds shall be your chariot.”

I stepped back as my sister opened her door and eyed me warily, looking particularly elfish with her hair tucked back behind her pointy ears.

“You swear?”

“Cross my goddamn heart.”

Da
d's new lady wasn't the salacious office vixen I'd imagined. Bonnie turned out to be a thick, bouncy gal in her mid-forties who smiled nervously as she surveyed our freshly waxed kitchen. She had brown curly hair, lau
gh lines around her eyes, and a polite giggle she pulled out whenever Dad made one h
is lame Dad jokes. Honestly, with her round face and crinkly button nose, she reminded me of a friendly lady hobbit, only taller, and that alone made it hard to dislike her.

Haylee and I sat at our usual places at the table, across from each other, while Dad had moved to my right and placed Bonnie to my left. I wondered if this was savvy arrangement on Dad's part—sitting in Mom's spot himself and thereby heading off any seating arrangement drama—or if he'd finally figured out it'd be easier to sit closer to the
stove if he was the one cooking.

Two fancy new ceramic serving bowls, one filled with vegetables and shrimp, the other with white rice, had been placed on the table. Haylee slouched in her seat, touching nothing as the rest of us served ourselves. “We don't say grace,” she announced, crossing her arms and glaring at our guest.

“That's fine by me,” Bonnie said. “Quicker to chowing down, right?”

Dad chuckled and Haylee gave him the old Death Stare. “Where's Chompy?” she asked.

“I put him in his kennel,” Dad said, stabbing a shrimp with his fork. “I thought it might be nice to have one meal without being chewed on.”

“Good idea,” I said, nodding. “I don't think Bonnie wants her feet molested while she's eating spicy shrimp stir-fry.”

Haylee scowled. “Is she allergic to dogs or something?”

“No, I love dogs. I'm not allergic to them at all. You can bring Chompy up, Peter. I don't mind.”

“I do,” I said, raising my hand. “Keep that bastard down there as long as you deem necessary, Pops. God knows he's earned it.”

Chompy, who must have known we were talking about him, gave one sharp, impertinent bark from the basement's moldy depths.

“You hear that?” Haylee said. “He's suffering.”

“No, honey,” Dad said. “He's not.”

“How do you know? You don't know everything. You don't know jack.”

“I know something,” I said, grabbing a shrimp by its tail and whipping it around. “I know I like going to the mall.”

“He's like a political prisoner down there. He can probably smell dinner.”

“He has his squeaky bone. He'll be fine.”

“Whatever. Like you care, anyway.”

Haylee stood up and her chair tipped over and clattered to the floor, making everybody flinch. “You're both traitors, you know that?” She glared at Dad and me. “Ungrateful sleezeball traitors.”

Leaning on the table, she turned the full power of her Death Stare on Bonnie, who now appeared sensibly alarmed.

“Dad sits where you're sitting. Mom sat near the stove.”

Bonnie blinked and looked at our father, who'd turned pink. Haylee walked out of the kitchen and left the house through the side door, which she slammed shut.

We all waited for a moment, wondering if the show was over, before Dad apologized to Bonnie and we started eating again. Occasionally we heard a contented squeak or two, rising up from below.