Followed by Fire

by J. Alan Brown

Table of Contents
Part 2 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

* * *

Becky Patterson agreed to herself that the evening was turning out better. Her feet adjusted themselves to their labor, the headache that blasted her after the incident with the fire had subsided, and the party of four she had just waited on were polite and generous. She took a moment to lean on the bar and chat while Evelyn mixed a Scotch-and-soda for one of Becky’s tables.

She heard laughter, and turned her head to see the two couples make their way toward the front door. She hadn’t quite pegged them; no appetizer, but no dessert either, and all of them drank iced tea. But they were nice enough. Becky took another moment to admire the auburn-haired woman’s shoes. The woman had just turned her back and walked out the door, followed by her husband, and Becky swiveled her head past Evelyn and back into the kitchen. Becky wanted to make sure that Roy wasn’t giving her that disappointed father look.

I’m not taking a break, hon, I’m waiting for a drink order.

Luis, his right arm wrapped in gauze, was just reaching into the covered portion of the conveyor belt to grab a ribeye ordered very rare when another stripe of flame burst out. Again the metal spatula fell to the floor with a clang. It took Becky three seconds to realize what the gibbering sound coming from the kitchen was.

Luis was on fire.

* * *

Rick parked his Honda in their driveway, and he and his wife walked across the Douglases’ back yard to get Matthew. Doug and Yvonne had apparently gone inside to bed, and the fire in the black brazier had died down to a soft glow. There was no handholding this time. The wind had picked up, and Melody wrapped her arms around her elbows for warmth. Rick plunged his own hands into his pockets.

“How much would a swimming pool cost us?” she asked quietly.

Bingo. “Well, the way I see it, we could either have this house, or we could have a pool, but not both.”

“That’s what I figured,” said Melody, and the weight in her voice settled into his chest like pneumonia.

Most men are able to provide for their families. Then there are those who work sixty hours a week to earn the princely sum of ‘not enough.’

At the Nortons, Matthew was keyed up from being up late and playing in another family’s house. Rick paid the sitter fifteen dollars, thanked her again, then the three of them walked back to their own home — Matthew between his parents, just like old times. Again, they crossed the Douglases’ yard, and as they passed the brazier, Melody held out a low hand toward it as if to absorb however little warmth it may have still held. Rick ignored the brazier; he was mentally calculating the odds of him getting laid that evening.

Let’s see, I took her out to dinner, so that’s a point. But Melody and Shelley arranged the whole thing while the husbands were at work. His job tonight was to drive the car and pay for the meal, so it’s not like he actually asked her out on a date. So call it a wash.

I shaved before we left, he countered, rubbing his cheeks experimentally. At least I don’t have sixteen hours of stubble.

He had called her Good Lookin’ twice, but hell, that never worked. Too much of that and she saw right through him. He dialed up a game show host’s unctuous voice. Compliment or Foreplay? You make the call!

CHEAP FOREPLAY! shouted the studio audience.

Let’s face facts, shall we? he asked himself. Is it after nine p.m.? Yes. That means she’ll be “exhausted.” Did she eat something beside cool toast dipped in warm milk? Sure, so that means her stomach hurts. And don’t forget, despite the fact we sat in the non-smoking section, we were in a public place, so the likelihood of a single molecule of cigarette smoke drifting across the restaurant and entering either of her nostrils is a near certainty, which means she has a headache.

Besides, we already had sex, what, three weeks ago? What more do you want? You just be patient, tiger. In a week, ten days at the tops, about a couple days after her period is over, you’ll get into bed with nothing but sleep on your mind. She’ll come in and crawl on top of you and begin the lovemaking. You can bank on it.

And whether you feel like it or not, you’ll do it, because you know this is your chance. If you don’t get your pecker up and do your duty, soldier, your Honda will be due for an oil change before you get to see your wife naked again.

So then, once Matthew is safely tucked in bed, we can expect Melody to brush her teeth and change into her rattiest, oversized T-shirt that completely swallows her figure and turns her into a manatee. Then she’ll brush her lips on ours and say good night. Despite being tired, she’ll want to watch some TV, so she’ll crawl under a blanket on the couch and sleep with David Letterman, just like always. Meanwhile, we’ll read for a bit and wonder why a man married for eleven years should have to whack off twice a week like a pimple-faced virgin.

They entered their house, and thus began the amended “getting ready for bed” script. Rick double-checked the door locks. Melody hustled Matthew into his bathroom to make him brush his teeth for longer than ten seconds. Rick changed into pajamas, then he tucked Matthew into bed while Melody did her evening bathroom ritual. By the time he clicked off the nightstand lamp and closed his son’s bedroom door, Melody ghosted past him toward the kitchen with her hair down and in an XXL T-shirt. Faded red letters spilled across the front that said “Big Bend National Park.” Rick followed her on the pretense of getting a drink of water out of a bottle in the refrigerator.

“How are you feeling tonight?” he asked, which was actually a coded message meaning, I’ll be awake for another hour from the caffeine in the iced tea. Wanna have sex? His testicles started tingling in instinctive anticipation.

“Exhausted,” said Melody, and she flopped down onto the couch and covered herself with a blanket, then hunted between the cushions for the TV remote. “I think I ate too much. I have a tummy ache.” She said it in that cute, little-girl voice that had swept him away when they dated back in college. “Besides,” she said, back in her normal voice, “all that cigarette smoke has given me a headache.”

For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ball game.

“Will you do me a favor and bring me some Advil and water?” She clicked the TV on and tabbed through the channels.

“Sure, Babe,” Rick said. He walked back to the kitchen, got her three pills from a bottle in a cabinet, then pulled out a fresh bottle of water from the refrigerator. She took them from him with a muttered, “Thanks.”

“Well, I guess I’ll go to bed now,” he said. This is it, folks. It’s the bottom of the ninth and bases are loaded. If the governor’s going to call it has to be now or it’ll be too late. He’s going to need a miracle if he’s going to pull this one out. He felt the beginnings of another erection.

“Good night,” she said without taking her eyes off the television screen.

He leaned his head down toward her. She dragged her eyes off of Letterman’s tooth gap and pushed her face toward his, lips hugely puckered again. She tapped his lips than dropped her face back toward the TV.

Oh!! So close! There’s the buzzer, and it’s all over for the challenger.

“Good night.” He stood over her, looking down at the top of her head.

I love you, Melody Burnside, he thought. In spite of everything, I still love you. I’m sorry I’m not the man you thought I would be. I know I don’t look like much, but you said you didn’t care when I proposed to you. I suspect you thought I would be rich by now. You married me under false pretenses, I think, and now you’re stuck. I’m sorry.

He turned, walked back to the master bedroom, closed the door behind him, and slipped into bed. He was asleep in less than five minutes.

But Rick was not the only one who loved Melody. Something else loved her, something bright and warm and appearing in a thousand places. Outside the walls of the only house that Matthew Burnside had ever known, a dampened force stirred. Had the blond-haired boy looked out his bedroom window, he would have seen the black cylindrical brazier next door slowly begin to glow.

It had grown up with her, and loved her from the start. Patiently, it waited for her to grow, to blossom into maturity. Then she had suddenly left, and it thought it had lost her forever. When she appeared again that evening, it had trembled with anxiety and joy.

First, it had wreathed her with smoke, like a lover waving fragrant flowers to perfume the air surrounding the beloved. It was seductive, playful, flirtatious, but she had played hard-to-get, and it had waned, biding its time.

Shortly afterwards it saw her again, and it exploded with a passion that could be seen. But it was too little, too late. It had not expected her to reappear so soon, and it did not have enough time to prepare something worthy.

Then it had quivered with excitement, for she had been near, she was so close! It called out to her, but she was too quick that time, and it retreated back into cautious patience.

Later, she had been leaving, perhaps forever, and it had raged with anguish at the thought of her walking away. This time it gambled everything. Just as she had turned her back, it burst out with a shout, and it had desperately sought her attention. It felt that it was not enough by itself, and it sought for more to make itself known. The material was plentiful, and it leaped from here to there, finding fuel to burn, to stoke itself into enormity. The walls that held it were no match for its love for her, and within minutes it shuddered with raw need as it shouted to the world. It was sure that its devotion to her could be seen for miles, and indeed, within minutes it sensed so many like her standing at a respectful distance. They were in awe from the brilliance of its love for her and the heat of its passion. The others had made piercing noises and flashed red and blue lights to help it signal her, and it looked down on them from what felt like a dizzying height.

But she did not see. Despite all its efforts, she had not seen. After what seemed an eternity, it felt its passion fall in a crushing weight of disappointment. She had not seen. It had not been enough. It collapsed within itself to contemplate its failure, to pick at its wounds with the sound of her voice.

It would have completely died that night, had it not been for a single gesture. A hand held toward it in passing, seeking only the slightest warmth. For a long time, it had misinterpreted the action, and it replayed the movement many times before even the faintest spark of hope began to stir. But stir it did. She had seen after all! She had seen, and she had been touched by its love. The thought of that caused it to pulse. It hesitated for fear of failure, but it was so close to the end now that another demonstration of its love would not be futile. Indeed, it would hold a poetic majesty if it burned itself out in one last fiery display of passion and devotion.

From the brazier, in a state long thought harmless by the Douglases when they went to bed, a single spark piffed into the air. Buoyed by heat from below, the spark rose and staggered up and over the top to be claimed by the wind. The freshening breeze carried the spark in a weaving line like a drunken bumblebee. It followed the crooked path that led to the object of its affection, but a last gust lifted it high and out of range.

Finally, the spark fell into a small knot of brown leaves caught in a gutter. These were not the damp, heavy leaves that lay on the cold ground. These were newly fallen from the red oak overhead, and were light and dry, like a picnic blanket spread on a grassy meadow. She was close — so close! — only a little bit down and ahead. The very nearness of her caused it to twinkle in lover’s ecstasy. It shuddered in a spasm of release and was gone.

Slowly, a thin tendril of smoke rose, quickly shredded by the wind into scattered nothingness.

Minutes later, the smoke thickened, wavered, strengthened.

Then the leaves began to burn.