Brock Clarke - An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England

“Don’t worry,” he said, although he said this in a deep, dark tone of voice that belied his skinniness and suggested that maybe I should worry. “My shrink talked me out of killing you.”

“You have a shrink?”

“I’ve had a bunch.” Thomas said this as if he were weary of his sadness, as if grief were a Halloween costume he still had on after the holiday and wanted to take off but couldn’t, and suddenly I had a very clear vision of his life, which I had helped make for him just as surely as I had helped make my own. I could see him going from shrink to shrink, and except for those shrinks and his grief and his awful past, he was all alone in the world. I doubted he had his own wife and kids waiting for him at home, and then I thought of Anne Marie and the kids, out there on their normal Saturday errands and then picking apples at a self-pick apple orchard, or petting domesticated wild animals at a petting zoo, or being read to at some library’s reading hour, and it occurred to me that the world didn’t need to be so big for just the four of us. I missed them badly and would have gotten in my minivan — we had two of them — and joined them at the petting zoo, for instance, except the minivan was low on gas and I didn’t know where the petting zoo was.

“Anyway,” Thomas said, shaking his head as if just waking up and trying to clear his head of a dream, “that’s why I’m here. My shrink said I should find you and ask you to apologize. For killing my parents.”

“Oh, I do, I do apologize,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” And I really was sorry and at the same time so happy that there was something I could do for Thomas after all these years. It is a rare thing, to be allowed to apologize for something so horrible and final. It was like Abel coming back from the dead and giving his brother Cain the chance to apologize for killing him. “Oh, I’m so sorry for killing your parents,” I said, and I was so full of penitence that I got down on my knees in a begging position. “I truly am sorry — it was an awful thing and changed too many lives and I wish it had never happened.”

Thomas had his head down as I gave him my apology. After I was done, he kept it down as if waiting for more or contemplating what he had already been given. Finally he raised his head and gave me a look that was grim and I knew meant trouble. “So that was your apology?” he asked. “That’s it?”

“Yes,” I said, and then I said, “Sorry,” for good measure.

“That was an awful apology,” Thomas said. His eyes looked about ready to pop out of his head and he clenched his fists: he was really steaming, there was no doubt about it. Thomas looked exactly like those people you see on TV, those people whose loved ones have been killed and who then get to speak to their killers in court, and who say the things to the killers that they think they need and want to say in order to get on with the rest of their lives and achieve some piece of mind, et cetera, only to find out that the words don’t mean anything and aren’t even theirs, really, and so end up feeling more desperate and grief stricken and angry after they’ve spoken than they had before. Thomas looked an awful lot like that. “You’re not sorry at all,” he said.

“I am, I am,” I said, and I was but didn’t know what else I could do to convince him, because that’s the trouble with being sorry: it’s much easier to convince people you really aren’t than you really are.

“You dick,” he said.

“Hey, now,” I said. “No need for that.”

“You fucking dick,” Thomas said. He moved forward a little, and for a second I thought he was going to jump me, but he didn’t, maybe because he saw or smelled the dried sweat from my lawn mowing, or maybe because I was bigger than he was and had about fifty pounds on him. Thomas didn’t know that he probably could have roughed me up, and without getting even a little bit dirty: I could feel the old passivity coming on, could hear my heart beating, Hit me, hit me, I deserve it and won’t fight back, so hit me. But Thomas couldn’t hear my heart, which is just one of the reasons I am happy to have one. Instead he took a step back, and his face took a step back, too, and began to look contemplative but still furious.

“I wonder how many of your neighbors know that you’re a murderer and an arsonist,” he said. “I wonder if your friends know. Your co-workers.”

“Well …,” I said.

“I bet you haven’t even told your family,” he said, and when he said this, the world suddenly became blurry and squiggly lined as though I were seeing it through extreme heat, and now I couldn’t recognize it, the world, and be sure that it was still mine.

“I know you’re not sorry about killing my parents,” Thomas said. “But you will be.”

And then he left: he turned, walked down my driveway, got into the black Jeep parked at the curb, and drove away. After he’d left, my heart slowed down a bit and my head cleared and I could hear the low roar of my neighbors’ mowers. I knew that no one had seen Thomas, or if they had, the neighbors wouldn’t have thought anything strange about his visit or even paid attention to it. The week before, my across-the-cul-de-sac neighbor’s estranged wife started banging on his door at three in the morning, screaming and threatening to cut off his vital parts with her grandfather’s Civil War saber, and he called the police on her and all in all they made a racket, but it was a distant, vague-sounding racket and we just thought someone had left their TV on too loud, until we read about it in the paper the next day. Our unspoken motto in Camelot was “Live and let live,” as long as you lived with your shirt on. Now that Thomas was gone it looked and sounded like a normal Saturday in Camelot. It was as though none of what had happened, had happened.

But it had. The past comes back once and then it keeps coming back and coming back, not just one part of the past but all of it, the forgotten crowd of your life breaks out of the gallery and comes rushing at you, and there is no sense in hiding from the crowd, it will find you; it’s your crowd, you’re the only one it’s looking for.

Anne Marie and the kids wouldn’t be back until three o’clock. It was two now. That would give me enough time to take a long walk and try to work up the nerve to tell my family the truth about my past. I knew that was what I finally had to do: tell the truth. And how did I know that?

Because of my mother: she could tell a story, and the stories she told, once my father left us, were always about the Emily Dickinson House. For instance, there was the story she told me when I was eight, a story about a boy and a girl, always nice enough, never too much older or younger than I was. They held hands and raced on foot and yelled sarcastic, innuendo-ridden taunts at each other, things that they’d heard or seen at the movies or on television or from their friends, who’d heard them in the same places and who’d changed them and made them their own.

They were good kids, this boy and girl: they went over to each other’s houses after school, on weekends and national holidays; they gave each other cards on birthdays and talked on the phone for hours. And one day when they walked past the Emily Dickinson House, the back door was open, which was unusual, and so they decided to check it out. As they crossed the threshold, as my mother told it, the door slammed behind them and the big house hummed like the warming up of an oversize garbage disposal. There were screams, faint but distinct, and when my mother finished the story I would let out a long, sour breath and whine, “But it’s so unfair.” And my mother would nod and say, “Emily Dickinson’s House is like the last hole of a miniature golf course. Like the ball on that final hole, the children go in and then the game waits for someone else.” Which was an unfortunate analogy, because my mother and I did a lot of miniature golfing together at this time.