Alligator - Lisa Moore [99]
Valentin had put the glass down in front of Frank and he had a shot glass for himself and the glasses were small and printed with Christmas trees. The glasses matched, Frank had noticed. Valentin had pulled out the chair opposite Frank’s and he sat with his elbows on the table, hunched over, and watched Frank drink. He was intent and patient. Valentin’s brown eyes had a beer-bottle colour, amber flecks.
How are you, my friend? Valentin said.
They had gone down the stairs and got into Valentin’s truck and then they wandered into the house on Morris Avenue where the furniture needed to be moved.
He was supposed to be helping Valentin move furniture.
But here he was, standing in the centre of the fire and he reflected on the nature and texture of his exhaustion, which he knew to be physical and having as much to do with the vacuum created by the fire, the loss of oxygen, as with his spiritual fatigue. Spiritual fatigue was a term his dance teacher, Dr. Callahan, used to use and it was a term Frank had forgotten completely but it came back to him in the fire on Morris Avenue and the phrase was so apt he nearly wept while the flames ran up the arms of his nylon jacket and made the material shrivel and burned runnels into his arms. He felt his forehead tighten because his eyebrows had sizzled off his face. He felt all his facial hair, even the bristles under his skin, burn away. Here’s what happened: he woke, he threw himself out a window. But later the goldfish came back to him.
Being in the very centre of a fire is a religious experience, Frank thought. He had been told the house was empty, someone had moved, and there were household items for sale.
There was a stereo he could have, Valentin had said, for next to nothing.
The Russian had passed him on the stairs and said, Just come and have a look, my friend. I need help moving some furniture.
Frank had given him Kevin’s money, right there on the stairs, without a word, and Valentin clapped him on the arm and told him it was very good. He held the money in his fist and shook his fist for emphasis and he said the money would be doubled in a few short days. But he still insisted Frank go with him to move furniture.
You could use some furniture, the Russian said. It was a reference, Frank knew, to his mother’s ashes and the ruined waterbed.
They’d gone up the stairs to Valentin’s bed-sit for a drink.
First we will drink together, Valentin had said. The Russian’s bed-sit was tidy. There was a stuffed flamingo on the floor in the corner with long lime green legs; it must have been a prize from the regatta.
I have a young son, Valentin said, nodding toward the toy.
I’m sure he’ll appreciate it, Frank said.
It was that or a teddy bear.
You went with the flamingo, Frank said. He downed the shot and it hit him like a pillow fight. He felt gently bashed and full of wonder.
An Inuit guy hanged himself in this room, Frank said.
There’s a strong smell, Frank had said, when he walked into the house on Morris Avenue. He knew it was gasoline. He was putting it together as he spoke. If his body was found after the fire, the police would think he had started it. Just as he put it together he had passed out.
VALENTIN
HE HAD THE accelerator jammed to the floor and Frank had slumped against him. The boy’s head had fallen onto Valentin’s thigh and it was as heavy as a bowling ball. Valentin had dragged him over the grass to the cab of the truck with the boy’s arm flung over his shoulder. When he gripped the boy’s wrist he felt a blister burst under his hand. The water made his grip slippery. The boy was heavier than Valentin had expected and when he became semi-conscious his feet tripped all over themselves on the driveway.
Valentin had given the boy