An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England by Brock Clarke
Authors: Brock Clarke
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room. I thought of the bond analysts, could see the pages of their memoirs flapping like gums, telling me: Tell the truth, tell the truth; you will feel better, dude . I could do it, could I not? I would tell Anne Marie about the Emily Dickinson House fire and the Colemans and my time in prison; I would tell her about my parents and how I’d hurt them so, and how they sent me off to college because of it: I would tell her about how Thomas Coleman had just come to see me. I would tell Anne Marie that I’d lied to her out of love and fear of losing her, and now I was telling her the truth out of the same fear, and that if she’d please, please forgive me, I’d never tell her another lie again.
So what did I actually tell Anne Marie? I told another lie. Because this is what you do when you’re a liar: you tell a lie, and then another one, and after a while you hope that the lies end up being less painful than the truth, or at least that is the lie you tell yourself.
“Nothing special,” I said. And then, before she could ask me another question to which I’d also have to lie, I told her something true: “I love you so much, Anne Marie. You know that, right?”
She smiled at me, put her hand on my cheek, which was her favorite fond gesture, and said, “I do know that. I do.”
“I’m starving,” I said. “Let’s make dinner.” We did: Katherine shredded the lettuce, washed it under the faucet, then put it in the salad spinner, which she spun violently, switching hands when one got tired; I set the table, putting the utensils where I thought they should go; Anne Marie made the actual meal, which I don’t remember specifically but I’m sure consisted of most of the important food groups. Christian came down, still logy from his TV watching, and managed to do his part, too, which was to sit in his chair and stay out of everyone’s way.
While we made dinner, the kitchen was filled with the usual chatter: Anne Marie talked about the book club she’d just joined, Katherine the soccer team she was the star of, Christian the cartoon he’d just watched and partially understood. Me, I didn’t talk much, mostly because there was that voice — What else? What else? — booming in my head, the voice I hadn’t heard in so many years. I was distracted by it, didn’t understand what it was doing there. I had what I wanted, it was with me, in the room, including the room itself. Was it possible that we hear that voice not when we want something else but when we’re in danger of losing the things we already have? The voice was so loud that I smacked myself on the side of the head to get rid of it, which Christian saw and imitated, and then, because he’d hit himself too hard, started crying and I had to comfort him, which at least helped me forget about the voice for a second.
Finally we all sat down. After the day I’d had, it seemed to me something like a miracle that we were all eating at the same table, the way a family is supposed to. A miracle is something to be commemorated in prayer, they taught us that in college, except I didn’t know any prayers, had forgotten the few the nuns made us memorize. So I simply said, “I am the luckiest father and husband in the world.” I was, too; I had been lucky for ten years, and I was lucky for four more days, and then my luck ran out and I did something I shouldn’t have.
4
I went out of town on business. My bosses sent me to Cincinnati, where I was to pitch a revolutionary kind of sausage casing to the people at Kahn’s. All told, I was gone for less than thirty-six hours and everything went well (the casing pretty much spoke for itself and did all the work). The only hitch was that after I’d flown into the airport, gotten my van out of long-term parking, and driven to Amherst, I stopped to get gas only two miles from my house and managed to lock my keys in the van while doing so. I didn’t want to pay someone at the gas station to jimmy the lock, so I
So what did I actually tell Anne Marie? I told another lie. Because this is what you do when you’re a liar: you tell a lie, and then another one, and after a while you hope that the lies end up being less painful than the truth, or at least that is the lie you tell yourself.
“Nothing special,” I said. And then, before she could ask me another question to which I’d also have to lie, I told her something true: “I love you so much, Anne Marie. You know that, right?”
She smiled at me, put her hand on my cheek, which was her favorite fond gesture, and said, “I do know that. I do.”
“I’m starving,” I said. “Let’s make dinner.” We did: Katherine shredded the lettuce, washed it under the faucet, then put it in the salad spinner, which she spun violently, switching hands when one got tired; I set the table, putting the utensils where I thought they should go; Anne Marie made the actual meal, which I don’t remember specifically but I’m sure consisted of most of the important food groups. Christian came down, still logy from his TV watching, and managed to do his part, too, which was to sit in his chair and stay out of everyone’s way.
While we made dinner, the kitchen was filled with the usual chatter: Anne Marie talked about the book club she’d just joined, Katherine the soccer team she was the star of, Christian the cartoon he’d just watched and partially understood. Me, I didn’t talk much, mostly because there was that voice — What else? What else? — booming in my head, the voice I hadn’t heard in so many years. I was distracted by it, didn’t understand what it was doing there. I had what I wanted, it was with me, in the room, including the room itself. Was it possible that we hear that voice not when we want something else but when we’re in danger of losing the things we already have? The voice was so loud that I smacked myself on the side of the head to get rid of it, which Christian saw and imitated, and then, because he’d hit himself too hard, started crying and I had to comfort him, which at least helped me forget about the voice for a second.
Finally we all sat down. After the day I’d had, it seemed to me something like a miracle that we were all eating at the same table, the way a family is supposed to. A miracle is something to be commemorated in prayer, they taught us that in college, except I didn’t know any prayers, had forgotten the few the nuns made us memorize. So I simply said, “I am the luckiest father and husband in the world.” I was, too; I had been lucky for ten years, and I was lucky for four more days, and then my luck ran out and I did something I shouldn’t have.
4
I went out of town on business. My bosses sent me to Cincinnati, where I was to pitch a revolutionary kind of sausage casing to the people at Kahn’s. All told, I was gone for less than thirty-six hours and everything went well (the casing pretty much spoke for itself and did all the work). The only hitch was that after I’d flown into the airport, gotten my van out of long-term parking, and driven to Amherst, I stopped to get gas only two miles from my house and managed to lock my keys in the van while doing so. I didn’t want to pay someone at the gas station to jimmy the lock, so I
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