An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England_ A Novel - Brock Clarke [128]
"Deirdre, don't!" I yelled, but who knows if she actually heard me. By then the flames had already crawled up the wick of her hair, and her hat burst into flames. And then her head was on fire, her head was fire, a ball of fire, and for a moment it was the only part of Deirdre on fire. The rest of her body was standing still, and her head, on fire, was cocked to the side as if she were listening to her own inner voice, except that her inner voice wasn't asking, What else? What else? but instead was telling her, Nothing, nothing.
"Sam, do something!" I heard a voice say, but it wasn't my voice, it wasn't that voice inside me, it was Detective Wilson's, who was all of a sudden right next to me. He, as I found out later, had read the note in the envelope after all and knew to show up at midnight. And he had. But I had shown up early, and so had Deirdre, and she was on fire because of it. Together, Detective Wilson and I ran toward her. Detective Wilson tackled her, and she landed with a hiss in the snow. "Give me your coat!" he yelled (he was only wearing his hooded sweatshirt). I did, and he started patting Deirdre down with it, saying soft, comforting things to her under his breath as he patted.
"This is your fucking fault, Sam," he said to me over his shoulder. I caught a glimpse of Deirdre lying there: her red jacket had turned black, and her face had turned black, too. The only thing of hers not black and scorched were her eyes: they were white and blank and staring skyward, at the birches, at the stars, or at nothing. I looked away and then at the gas can lying next to her body. I could tell, even in the darkness, that it was one I'd helped design back when I was still a person who designed things. And then I looked away from the gas can, too, and closed my eyes. They immediately started to tear up, tears being your eyes' way of forbidding you to look away, of forcing you to look at the world you've made or unmade.
"It wasn't me," I said., and started backing away, the way we do when we're not brave enough to do anything else. "She set herself on fire."
"Fuck you anyway," Detective Wilson said, still furiously patting her through my coat. "I saw her do it. So what? You didn't fucking stop her."
"She asked me to meet her here," I said. "She wanted me to save her and my father."
"You could have saved her," he said, and I realized that he had started crying, crying being that thing you do when you've done everything else, and then I started crying, crying also being that thing you do when you haven't done enough and you're afraid it's too late to start.
"Is she dead?" I asked.
"You could have saved her," Detective Wilson said, "and you didn't."
At that, I turned and broke into a sprint. Deirdre had wanted me to save her and I showed up too early and didn't. But Deirdre had also wanted me to save my father. My mother was only a few blocks away, at our house, with him. I ran as fast as I could, but even so, when I got there I was too late.
26
You wouldn't expect a burning house to look like a burning woman, and you'd be right: it doesn't. There is nothing beautiful about a woman on fire, but there is plenty that is beautiful about a house burning hot and high in the dark, cold night: the way flames shoot out of the chimney like a Roman candle; the way the asphalt roof shingles sizzle and pop; the way the smoke pours and pours and pours heavenward like a message to the house's great beyond. There is something celebratory about a house fire, which is why so many