American Outlaw - Jesse James [18]
Finally, at dawn, my dad and Nina showed up. None of us had slept. A small squad of firefighters was still there, dousing out hot spots.
“Goddamn,” my dad cried, getting out of his car. He walked up to me and stood over me. “How’d this happen, Jess?”
I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. I shrugged.
“The place is fucked,” he said. The tone of his voice was dangerously hoarse.
I remained silent, scared of the anger that I knew was building.
“No one can live here anymore,” he said. He nodded slowly, as if taking in his own comment. “We don’t have a house anymore.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to.”
“Yeah, he didn’t mean to,” Nina said sarcastically. “He just loves that house.”
I whirled to face her. “What are you talking about? Why would I burn the house down on purpose?”
She shook her head at me. “How’m I supposed to know what goes on in that head? All I see is my house burned down.”
“Your house?” I cried. “You’ve only lived here for six months!”
My dad looked at me. “You burned this down on purpose?”
“I didn’t burn it down!” I shouted. “I was down the street and I came out and it was on fire.”
“Yeah, and it just caught on fire by itself?” Nina taunted.
“What is wrong with you, Jesse?” my dad asked. “After all I’ve given you, you go and burn my fucking house?”
“I didn’t burn it!” I yelled. “How many times do I have to say I didn’t do it?”
“All I’m seeing,” my dad said, with blood in his eyes, his jaw clenched, “is a rotten, useless, burned-up building!” He pushed me aside. “It was your fireworks in the garage! And you have the goddamn gall to stand right in front of me and tell me you had nothing to do with it?”
“Fuck you,” I whispered. It was the first time I had ever said that to my dad in my whole life.
My father reared back and punched me in the face. His fist hit me with all the force of a grown man’s hate, and he broke my nose for me. Blood everywhere.
In disbelief, I touched my nose and watched the blood begin to drip down all over my hand and arm.
Years of frustration and rage coursed through me in one furious instant. I put my head down and tackled him, pinning his aging body to the floor, and with my fists and legs, I tried to kill him.
“Get off me!” my dad cried, but I was bigger than him now, and stronger.
We rolled over each other with our bodies, tangled in a death grip. We crashed through the living room wall, the sick smell of burned drywall and reclaimed water enveloping us.
I hated him so much. I tried to crush him with my hands. If the firefighters hadn’t been there, I would have killed him. I remember their slick raincoats against my skin, their hats falling off their heads, as two of them tried to pull me off my father, and a third joined to help them.
“Son!” they cried. “That’s enough! Let go! Let go of him.”
They ripped us apart and threw me into the corner, where I lay sobbing for what seemed like a long time. My dad lay on the ground, too, ten yards away from me. He didn’t make a sound.
Slowly, I rose to my feet, walked out of the blackened shell of the house, and got into my car. I drove away without looking back.
3
I was alone and homeless. So I went to Rhonda. I felt like I had no other options left.
“Can I . . . can I stay with you for a while?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Jesse,” Rhonda said. “My mom might not like it.”
But her mother, Linda, surprised us both. She looked at me real hard when I told her what had happened, listening to every word. Then she informed me that, if I agreed to a few conditions, I was welcome to stay.
“First things first, Jesse,” her mom said. “There