Chapter Five

     A broken spring in my cushion poked at me, but I preferred the pain of my idleness to movement.  I told myself I wanted to feel it because I wanted to feel something, though I squirmed against it to get comfortable.  The stack of pictures rested on the cushion beside me, and with every drink from my beer can, I attached another memory to each still life. When I got to the picture of the three of us, I was well into the six-pack. The cans I’d thrown toward the trashcan were scattered about the garage – I missed every shot.

     Roni posed for the camera. Her arms wrapped over the shoulders of Mickey and me. I was looking at her with some sort of adoration and worship which creased the corners of my eyes and parted my lips. I liked to believe it was a picture that proved how much I loved her. Mickey had his chest puffed out – some big, proud moment. He looked at both of us. In whatever way we were individuals, it showed, but the way we were three was most evident from Mickey’s expression.

     When I looked at the picture I saw that Roni loved herself more than she loved us.  I didn’t hold it against her because how could she not? I saw that I loved her more than I loved anyone or anything else.  And I saw that Mickey, looking at the two of us, loved how we were three. He looked at us as though Roni and I were his very own couple.

     I threw my fifth empty can and bounced it off the rim, opened another and stared at Roni. Some quiet part of her was ready to pounce when that picture was taken. I could see it in the photo, though I couldn’t see it before.

     She broke us when she walked into that train station carrying a thrown-together bag of her things, her container of rainy day money, and our dreams of getting out of Rushville.

     As many times as I thought through the scene, I could never make sense of how it all came together. She always talked about getting out. What made that night different? Maybe I was looking at the good of her so much that I blinded myself to the warning signs that something was wrong.

     I ran my fingers over the slick surface of the photo, around the edge of her face, and remembered the apologetic and relieved look she gave over her shoulder to us where we stood by the open trunk.  I was holding Mickey’s arm to keep him from running to her. Something in her gaze seemed to crush under the weight of his outburst and she turned away, never to look back.

     She had left me with the pieces of a tangled up Mickey, my own heartbreak, and what would soon be the guilt of not running after her.

     From the moment Mickey panicked, “What just happened? Where’s she going? We have to go, Duncan! She can’t go without us. Why are you just standing there?” until four days later when Mickey and I arrived back in town to the devastating news of her death, all I could think about was what I was going to do next and how I was going to make it without her.

     It had been all down hill since.  Mickey wanted to go to Roni’s haunts and pretend she still existed. I wanted to wallow in her cruel absence. The void was pure misery, especially on days like this, where I hid from the world and drank away the pain, only to replace it with a broken sofa spring digging into the middle of my back.

     I tried to dull her absence by creating my own.

     I heard a thump outside and assumed it was Mickey. He always knew where to find me.

     “I’m in here,” I yelled, but when the door didn’t open, I disregarded the noise as something random – a branch in a breeze or an animal scurrying.

     I closed my eyes and thought over the details one more time. She never made it on the train. Her ticket was purchased, but she never boarded.

     When she was found, she still had her bag of clothes, but the plastic container was gone. I wondered again what was in the container. Was it just money or a secret that needed keeping? If it was money, where did she get it and who had taken it?

     The four days Mickey and I were gone were the days we searched. We drove from the station and stopped at the Hive for a drink. That’s when we decided to go back and find out where she had gone. The man at the ticket counter remembered her and told us she bought a ticket for Memphis. We drove after her.

     “Mick, she had to get away, but what if she needs us? We should go.”

     We spent three days in Memphis searching high and low for her, only to return home and find out she never boarded.

     Her body was found in a field twenty miles from Rushville. The man at the station didn’t recall anyone else in the station. When he spoke to the police, he only recalled our return to find her. We were the faces he remembered, and then we had to explain our four day absence.

     The alibis we had of people in Memphis who saw us, people at the gas station in town before we left, and Mr. Wilson, a regular at The Hive, were enough to keep us from further suspicion in the eyes of the law, though Cal had a different take.

     I slipped into an alcohol-sleep, and in the dream that followed I could still see her waving. The last moment we would see her.

     We were out of town and still unaware that we had lost her for good. We were not allowed to attend her funeral. Because our names had not yet been cleared with alibis, the family requested we not attend. And we never got our good-bye, only the spastic grope of desperation as she walked out of our lives. We never got to see the worry on her face fade.

     I awoke gasping and gagging to breathe.  The smoke was an overpowering wall of haze. I choked, and ran toward the side door closest to where I was sitting at the back of the garage. My drunkenness slowed my reaction and the confusion of the fire overcame any semblance of clear thinking. My vision failed in the gathering gray of the smoke pouring in, but I saw a flash of orange when a ceiling beam caught flame and the panic set in fully. I fumbled over the door and pulled the doorknob. It wouldn’t even turn.

     I pulled my t-shirt over my nose and felt my way along the wall, dragging my hands over the shelves to my left to feel my way. Tools clinked to the floor as my hands shuffled across them. The rush and crackle of the flames grew more insistent.

     At the end of the shelves were the workbench and the window above it. As I pulled my shirt off, the heat scorched my skin. I wrapped the shirt around my hand and smashed it into the glass.

     When a shard stabbed me through the wrapped cloth, I realized there was no escape over the jagged edges of glass still poking up from the frame. And the fire raged more fiercely with the air I’d allowed in.

     The flame swirled furiously in the beams above my head; licking upward, it devoured the wooden structure of the ceiling. I feared a collapse as the smoke funneled out the window. It, too, was nearly consumed.

     It was only a matter of time before gasoline and other flammables would explode, and me with them. The billowing smoke burned my eyes and throat. I scrambled to the front of the garage, fumbling in the heat and smoke for the release to raise the car entrance door.  My hand rested on the hot metal of the latch; blisters formed instantly.

     I twisted the latch but the door wouldn’t budge. I would have to exit over the broken glass of the window and hoped the frame would hold long enough.

    Then I heard Mickey yell from the back of the garage, “Duncan, are you in here?”

     “I’m over here,” I yelled back to him.

     “Keep talking so I can find you.”

     My throat burned with every word, “the door latch. I’m by the latch.” I coughed to the point that I thought I would vomit.

     I fell to my knees where I could breathe easier, and started to crawl toward his voice, sharp pain shot up my arm from the cut on my wrist. Blood pooled each time my palm pressed to the concrete floor. Ash and red hot embers began to fall from the ceiling landing on my bare back; I writhed against the pain but kept crawling, feeling the sticky warmth of blood under my hand.

     Mickey gripped my shoulder. I wheezed as he pulled me to my feet and carried me through the garage to get me out the side door.

     Sirens screamed toward us as he plopped me onto the frozen lawn. He took off his coat and wrapped it over my shoulders. We watched the garage burn beyond salvage.

     “What the hell happened?” he asked. He bent down with his hands on his knees heaving air into his exhausted and smoke-filled lungs.

     “I have no idea. I heard a noise outside and thought it was you, the next thing I know the whole ceiling is in flames.”

     Mickey held up a shovel. “This was stuck in the dirt and the handle was lodged under the doorknob.”

     The fire department showed up just as two small explosions burst from inside the now-consumed structure.

     I lay down on the lawn, chest and throat raw from smoke inhalation, and cradled my injured arm over my chest.

     I could only assume that someone believed I knew too much. I was prone to an active imagination. The one who murdered Rhonda was attempting to murder me, I thought.

     A dull beep spidered into my consciousness as I slept and I struggled against its persistence to wake me. Once I opened my eyes, the soft gray tone of the hospital room eased me into reality.

     Mickey was curled in the bedside chair, flopped to one side with his neck impossibly kinked to his shoulder.

     I cleared my throat and he jumped, rubbed his neck, wiped a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth and smiled.

     “You’re awake!”

     “Hey buddy,” I said with a raspy ache in my throat.

     “Someone tried to kill you, Duncan.” He stood and approached the bed. “They destroyed your garage.” He rubbed a hand over his hair and looked afraid with the wide eyes and high, wrinkled brow of a child.

     I nodded and closed my eyes as I swallowed hard, grimacing with the pain.

     All I could think about were the pictures of Roni I would never see again.