An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England_ A Novel - Brock Clarke [130]
"Sam," said a familiar voice behind me. I didn't have to turn around to see who it was or to know what I had to tell him. Because I could also hear another voice, not my inner voice, not the voice that said, What else? and not Deirdre's voice, the one that told her, Nothing, but Anne Marie's voice, telling me that it was time to take responsibility for something, for everything.
"It was me," I said, not looking at Detective Wilson, still looking at my mother ― who was looking at her house and her fire ― still thinking about Deirdre's burning herself to death and my doing nothing to save her. "I did it." My mother didn't say anything; she kept staring at the fire, as if she knew that it was making her beautiful, as if fire were the best kind of makeup.
"You set fire to your parents' house before you went to meet Deirdre," Detective Wilson said, helping me out. "Before you watched Deirdre burn herself to death, you set fire to your home." I was still looking at my mother when he said this. She closed her eyes for one, two, three beats and then opened them again. For years, my mother must have hated Deirdre; for years she must have wished her dead. And now that Deirdre was dead, my mother looked no different than she had when she thought Deirdre was alive ― not guilty, nor relieved, nor happy. How was this possible? How could my mother know Deirdre was dead and still look at the world as if it were the same world, at the fire as though it were the same fire? But maybe this is what happens when you hate someone for so long: the person you hate dies, but the hate stays with you, to keep you company. Maybe if I'd hated Deirdre for longer, I wouldn't have felt so bad about not saving her.
"That's right," I told Detective Wilson. "I burned my parents' house. It was me."
"You were the one who tried to burn down the Edward Bellamy House. And the next day, you left the letter with that old man."
"Mr. Frazier," I said. "That's right, I did."
"And then you tried to burn down the Mark Twain House. That's where all that money came from in the envelope. And you left your driver's license with the people who paid you to do it."
"Yes," I said, "I did."
"People saw you at the Robert Frost Place the day you burned it. You made quite a scene."
"I told my story," I said. "That's true. And I left the letters behind at the other four fires. I wanted to get caught. You were right about that."
"You set all the fires," Detective Wilson said. "This fire and all the other ones, too."
"All of them," I said.
"Sam," he said softly, "is your father inside that house?"
"He is," I said quickly, before I could give myself time to think about what I was admitting to, and this is another thing I'll put in my arsonist's guide: the mouth moves fast because the mind will not.
"I suppose you're going to tell me you didn't know he was in there when you set the fire. That it was an accident."
I took a deep breath. There was that word, my very favorite: I held it in my mouth for a second, savoring it, knowing that I would miss it so much when it was gone, miss it the way I would miss my father, the way I already did, the way I still do, the way I always will. "It wasn't an accident," I finally said.
"Thank you," Detective Wilson said, his voice full of relief. I was happy for him, happy to give him the illusion that he'd gotten something right and was no longer a bumbler. And for that matter, now that I'd taken some responsibility, I didn't feel like a bumbler anymore, either. It felt as though bumbling was a disease for which we'd found a cure.
"You're welcome," I said.
"You finally told the truth," he said.
"I really did."
"Doesn't it feel better to tell the truth?" Detective Wilson asked, but then he yanked my hands behind my back and cuffed them before I could decide whether it felt better or not.
27
So here I am again, in prison, a medium-security one this