“I was nine years old,” he began, “and for two weeks, we were practically buried in heat. The temperature had hovered near a hundred, even though it was still early in the summer. It had been one of the driest springs on record—not a single drop of rain in two months, and everything was splinter dry. I remember my mother and father talking about the drought and how farmers were already beginning to worry about their crops because summer had supposedly just begun. It was so hot that time just seemed to slow down. I’d wait all day for the sun to go down for some relief, but even then it didn’t help. Our house was old—it didn’t have air-conditioning or much insulation—and just lying in bed would make me sweat. I remember that my sheets would get soaked; it was impossible to sleep. I kept moving around to get comfortable, but I couldn’t. I’d just toss and turn and sweat like crazy.”
He was staring at the coffee table as he spoke, his eyes unfocused, his voice subdued. Denise watched as one hand formed into a fist, then relaxed, then formed again. Opening and closing like the door to his memory, random images slipping through the cracks.
“Back then, there was this set of plastic army soldiers that I saw in the Sears catalog. It came with tanks, jeeps, tents, and barricades—everything a kid needs to have a little war, and I don’t remember ever wanting anything more in my whole life. I used to leave the catalog open to that page so that my mom wouldn’t miss it, and when I finally got the set for my birthday, I don’t think I’d ever been more excited about a gift. But my bedroom was real small—it used to be a sewing room before I came along—and there wasn’t enough space to set it up the way I wanted, so I put the whole collection up in the attic. When I couldn’t sleep that night, that’s where I went.”
He finally looked up, a rueful sigh escaping from him, something bitter and long repressed. He shook his head as if he still didn’t believe it. Denise knew enough not to interrupt.
“It was late. It was past midnight when I snuck past my parents’ door to the steps at the end of the hall. I was so quiet—I knew where every squeak in the floor was, and I purposely avoided them so my parents wouldn’t know I was up there. And they didn’t.”
He brought his hands to his face and bent forward, hiding his face before letting his hands fall away again. His voice gained momentum.
“I don’t know how long I was up there that night. I could play with those soldiers for hours and not even realize it. I just kept setting them up and fighting these imaginary battles. I was always Sergeant Mason—the soldiers had their names stamped in the bottom—and when I saw that one of them had my father’s name, I knew he had to be the hero. He always won, no matter what the odds were. I’d pit him against ten men and a tank, and he’d always do exactly the right thing. In my mind, he was indestructible; I’d get lost in Sergeant Mason’s world, no matter what else was going on. I’d miss dinner or forget my chores . . . I couldn’t help it. Even on that night, hot as it was, I couldn’t think of anything else but those damn soldiers. I guess that’s why I didn’t smell the smoke.”
He paused, his fist finally closing for good. Denise felt the muscles in her neck tighten as he continued.
“I just didn’t smell it. To this day, I don’t know why—it seems impossible to me that I could have missed it—but I did. I didn’t realize anything was happening at all until I heard my parents come scrambling out of their bedroom, making a huge ruckus. They were yelling and screaming for me, and I remember thinking that they’d found out that I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I kept hearing them call my name over and over, but I was too afraid to answer.”
His eyes pleaded for understanding.
“I didn’t want them to find me up there—they’d already told me a hundred times that once I was in bed, I was supposed to stay there all night. If they found me, I figured I’d get in big trouble. I had a baseball game that weekend, and I knew they’d ground me for sure, so instead of coming out when they called, I came up with a plan to wait until they were downstairs. Then I was going to sneak into the bathroom and pretend that I’d been in there the whole time. It sounds dumb, I know, but at the time, it made sense to me. I turned out the light and hid behind some boxes to wait it out. I heard my father open the attic door, shouting for me, but I kept quiet until he finally left. Eventually, the sounds of them tearing through the house died down, and that was when I went for the door. I still had no idea of what was going on, and when I opened it, I was stunned by a blast of heat and smoke. The walls and ceiling were on fire, but it seemed so completely unreal; at first I didn’t really understand how serious it was. Had I rushed through it then, I probably could have made it out, but I didn’t. I just stared at the fire, thinking how strange it was. I wasn’t even afraid.”
Taylor tensed, hunching over the table in an almost protective position, his voice rasping on.
“But that changed almost immediately. Before I knew it, everything seemed to catch on fire at once and the way out was blocked. That was when I first realized that something awful was happening. It had been so dry that the house was burning like kindling. I remember thinking that the fire seemed so . . . alive. The flames seemed to know exactly where I was, and a burst of fire shot toward me, knocking me down. I began to scream for my father. But he was already gone, and I knew it. In a panic, I scrambled to the window. When I opened it, I saw my parents on the front lawn. My mom was wearing a long shirt and my dad was in his boxers, and they were running around in a panic, looking and calling for me. For a moment I couldn’t say a thing, but my mom seemed to sense where I was, and she looked up at me. I can still see her eyes when she realized I was still in the house. They got real wide, and she brought her hand to her mouth and then she just started screaming. My dad stopped what he was doing—he was over by the fence—and he saw me, too. That was when I started to cry.”
On the couch, a tear spilled out of the corner of his unblinking eye, though he didn’t seem to realize it. Denise felt sick to her stomach.
“My dad . . . my big strong dad came rushing across the lawn in a flash. By then, most of the house was on fire, and I could hear things crashing and exploding downstairs. It was coming up through the attic, and the smoke started getting really thick. My mom was screaming for my dad to do something, and he ran to the spot right beneath the window. I remember him screaming, ‘Jump, Taylor! I’ll catch you! I’ll catch you, I promise!’ But instead of jumping, I just started to cry all the harder. The window was at least twenty feet up, and it just seemed so high that I was sure I’d die if I tried. ‘Jump, Taylor! I’ll catch you!’ He just kept shouting it over and over: ‘Jump! Come on!’ My mom was screaming even louder, and I was crying until I finally shouted out that I was afraid.”
Taylor swallowed hard.
“The more my dad called for me to jump, the more paralyzed I became. I could hear the terror in his voice and my mom was losing it and I just kept screaming back that I couldn’t, that I was afraid. And I was, even though I’m sure now he would have caught me.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched rhythmically, his eyes were hooded, opaque. He slammed his fist into his leg.
“I can still see my father’s face when he realized I wasn’t going to jump—we both came to the realization at exactly the same time. There was fear there, but not for himself. He just stopped shouting and he lowered his arms, and I remember that his eyes never left mine. It was like time stopped right then—it was just the two of us. I couldn’t hear my mom anymore, I couldn’t feel the heat, I couldn’t smell the smoke. All I could think about was my father. Then, he nodded ever so slightly and we both knew what he was going to do. He finally turned away and started running for the front door.
“He moved so fast that my mom didn’t have time to stop him. By then, the house was completely in flames. The fire was closing in around me, and I just stood in the window, too shocked to scream anymore.”
Taylor pressed the heels of his palms against his closed eyes, applying pressure. When he dropped his hands into his lap, he leaned back into the far corner of the couch, as if unwilling to finish the story. With great effort he went on.
“It must have been less than a minute before he got to me, but it seemed like forever. Even with my head out the window, I could barely breathe. Smoke was everywhere. The fire was deafening. People think they’re quiet, but they’re not. It sounds like devils screaming in agony when things are consumed by flames. Despite that, I could hear my father’s voice in the house, calling that he was coming.”
Here Taylor’s voice broke, and he turned away to hide the tears that began to spill down his face.
“I remember turning around and seeing him rushing toward me. He was on fire. His skin, his arms, his face, his hair—everything. Just this human fireball rushing at me, being eaten away, bursting through the flames. But he wasn’t screaming. He just barreled into me, pushing me toward the window, saying, ‘Go, son.’ He forced me out the window, holding on to my wrist. When the entire weight of my body was dangling, he finally let go. I landed hard enough to crack a bone in my ankle—I heard the snap as I fell onto my back, looking upward. It was like God wanted me to see what I’d done. I watched my father pull his flaming arm back inside. . . .”
Taylor stopped there, unable to go on. Denise sat frozen in her chair, tears in her own eyes, a lump in her throat. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible and he was shivering as if the effort of choking back sobs were tearing his body apart.
“He never came back out. I remember my mom pulling me away from the house, still screaming, and by then I was screaming, too.”
His eyes closed tightly, he lifted his chin to the ceiling.
“Daddy . . . no—” he called out hoarsely.
The sound of his voice echoed like a shot in the room.
“Get out, Daddy!”
As Taylor seemed to crumple into himself, Denise moved instinctively to his side, wrapping her arms around him as he rocked back and forth, his broken cries almost incoherent.
“Please, God . . . let me do it over . . . please . . . I’ll jump . . . please, God . . . I’ll do it this time . . . please let him come out . . .”
Denise hugged him with all her strength, her own tears falling unheeded onto his neck and back as she pressed her face into him. After a while she heard nothing but the beating of his heart, the creak of the sofa as he rocked himself into a rhythmic trance, and the words he kept whispering over and over—
“I didn’t mean to kill him. . . .”
Chapter 28
Denise held Taylor until he finally fell silent, spent and exhausted. Then she released him and went to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a can of beer, something she’d splurged on when she’d bought her car.
She didn’t know what else to do, nor did she have any idea what to say. She’d heard terrible things in her life, but nothing like this. Taylor looked up from the couch as she handed him the beer; with an almost deadened expression, he opened the beer and took a drink, then lowered it to his lap, both hands wrapped around the can.
She reached over, resting her hand on his leg, and he took hold of it.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“No,” he answered earnestly, “but then maybe I never was.”
She squeezed his hand.
“Probably not,” she agreed. He smiled wanly. They sat in silence for a few moments before she spoke again.
“Why tonight, Taylor?” Though she could have tried to talk him out of the guilt he still felt, she knew intuitively that now wasn’t the time. Neither of them was ready to face those demons.
He absently rotated the can in his hands. “I’ve been thinking about Mitch ever since he died, and with Melissa moving away . . . I don’t know . . . I felt like it was starting to eat me alive.”
It always was, Taylor.
“Why me, then? Why not someone else?”
He didn’t answer right away, but when he glanced up at her, his blue eyes registered nothing but regret.
“Because,” he said with unmistakable sincerity, “I care about you more than I ever cared about anyone.”
At his words, her breath caught in her throat. When she didn’t speak, Taylor reluctantly withdrew his hand the same way he once had at the carnival.
“You have every right not to believe me,” he admitted. “I probably wouldn’t, given the way I acted. I’m sorry for that—for everything. I was wrong.” He paused. With his thumbnail, he flicked the tab on the can in his hands. “I wish I could explain why I did the things I did, but I honestly don’t know. I’ve been lying to myself for so long that I’m not even sure I’d know the truth if I saw it. All I know for sure is that I screwed up the best thing I’ve ever had in my life.”
“Yeah, you did,” she agreed, prompting a nervous laugh from Taylor.
“I guess a second chance is out of the question, huh?”
Denise was silent, suddenly aware that at some point this evening, her anger toward Taylor had dissipated. The pain was still there, though, and so was the fear of what might come. In some ways she felt the same anxiety she’d felt when she was getting to know him for the first time. And in a way, she knew she was.
“You used that one a month ago,” she said calmly. “You’re probably somewhere in the twenties by now.”
He heard an unexpected glimmer of encouragement in her tone and looked up at her, his hope barely disguised.
“That bad?”
“Worse,” she said, smiling. “If I were the queen, I probably would have had you beheaded.”
“No hope, huh?”