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He backhanded the window to his parents' bedroom, the glass splashing inside. With the end of the log, he spattered out the jagged pieces from the frame, pulled the curtain aside, climbed up on the metal chair just outside, as if to pull himself through, then looked at the bed. When he and Steph were asleep on the bunks upstairs, his parents slept there--before the princess accountant or whatever. His step-mom. Whoever wants a step-mom? Who asks for one? All he could see now was this other women, his father's bulk over her in this bed, their bed, destroying absolutely everything with a hot time in the old cottage, getting his jollies.
There's matches on the mantle, he thought. He pushed his legs through the open window then leaned back to pull his upper body through. Dark inside, but he didn't need light to know his way around. He moved through the bedroom, felt the rug quit before he came to the apron of stone in front of the grate. The kerosene lamp. He held it in his hands, saw the shade. Things got clearer.
Two boxes of matches stood beside a kachina doll his father had taken back from New Mexico. Round, flat stones from the beach lined up in a row that he'd put them there himself when he was a kid, ones he'd picked up on the beach, jammed in his pockets. Magazines down below--kindling.
He put down the log, slipped open the box, and picked out maybe ten wooden matches, lit one quickly and looked around. He had every good reason in the world to burn it down, every last excuse rising from something in his heart--no, not in his heart. It wasn't his heart. It was something in him spilling hate and already burning so hot he didn't need matches. All he had to do was to touch his finger to a grocery bag and the place would go. Hate was what it was. Hate in him.
He stood there, lit another match when the first went out, turned and looked around the place--the chairs, the couch, the games beneath the corner table. Not out of anger, he told himself. He couldn't do this because he was pissed. That was wrong. Something just had to go, he thought. Something had to die. Something had to burn. There had to be an end to something. There was something right about it--the cottage goes up in flames and they know who did it. It was like telling him something he couldn't say. The place is burned down and they look at him and they can't say a thing because they know too well why. They can't even yell. Nobody can. His old man can't--and his mother either--because then they'd very damn well know what they'd done. More than he could say. Better than he could ever tell them with words.
He balled up some newspapers and dropped them on the throw rug, then picked the kerosene lamp up and smashed it over the floor, lit another match, and waited. In his hand, the flame of the match broke into pieces on the shaft. Ben Warren would do it, he told himself, turning the match in his fingers to keep it lit. Ben Warren was a man. Ben Warren wouldn't hesitate here for a minute. Ben Warren would do it and smile. Ben Warren would be proud of himself. Let it go, let it drop. Ben Warren would just laugh. Ben Warren would make it a big deal--high fives all around. A man would just do it, he thought. A man would burn the place down and laugh. Like his old man. Just laugh. Something's his old man would do, sure thing.
The night sky was clear when he walked back towards the lake and sat, still in his sweats, alone on the crown of the beach, the moon still scattering sparkles over the rough hide of the water, the sky dark as velvet spread with stars, the cottage--the love nest, their cottage, Grandpa's cottage--completely hidden in darkness, but still there, still standing. No flames. Quiet and still. With the edge of his hood, he dried his eyes.
Behind him, the sound of waves lapping. Like rain at night. You can listen to that all night long, he thought--just listen to a mystery. Like looking into a fire. You can sit and stare forever.
He took a wooden match out of the pouch of his sweatshirt and lit it with his fingernail. You can sit and stare for hours. He pulled the match up in front of his face, flicked his wrist and twisted it out, then looked at the lake, so gentle it seemed untouched, a field of soft gray darkness no single disc had ever cut. And beyond and over it, a sky and a hundred million stars in galaxies so far outside of anywhere that nobody had ever dreamed they existed. Black holes big enough to swallow continents. So much out there, so very much.
There's things that are bigger, he thought. There's got to be.
He backhanded the window to his parents' bedroom, the glass splashing inside. With the end of the log, he spattered out the jagged pieces from the frame, pulled the curtain aside, climbed up on the metal chair just outside, as if to pull himself through, then looked at the bed. When he and Steph were asleep on the bunks upstairs, his parents slept there--before the princess accountant or whatever. His step-mom. Whoever wants a step-mom? Who asks for one? All he could see now was this other women, his father's bulk over her in this bed, their bed, destroying absolutely everything with a hot time in the old cottage, getting his jollies.
There's matches on the mantle, he thought. He pushed his legs through the open window then leaned back to pull his upper body through. Dark inside, but he didn't need light to know his way around. He moved through the bedroom, felt the rug quit before he came to the apron of stone in front of the grate. The kerosene lamp. He held it in his hands, saw the shade. Things got clearer.
Two boxes of matches stood beside a kachina doll his father had taken back from New Mexico. Round, flat stones from the beach lined up in a row that he'd put them there himself when he was a kid, ones he'd picked up on the beach, jammed in his pockets. Magazines down below--kindling.
He put down the log, slipped open the box, and picked out maybe ten wooden matches, lit one quickly and looked around. He had every good reason in the world to burn it down, every last excuse rising from something in his heart--no, not in his heart. It wasn't his heart. It was something in him spilling hate and already burning so hot he didn't need matches. All he had to do was to touch his finger to a grocery bag and the place would go. Hate was what it was. Hate in him.
He stood there, lit another match when the first went out, turned and looked around the place--the chairs, the couch, the games beneath the corner table. Not out of anger, he told himself. He couldn't do this because he was pissed. That was wrong. Something just had to go, he thought. Something had to die. Something had to burn. There had to be an end to something. There was something right about it--the cottage goes up in flames and they know who did it. It was like telling him something he couldn't say. The place is burned down and they look at him and they can't say a thing because they know too well why. They can't even yell. Nobody can. His old man can't--and his mother either--because then they'd very damn well know what they'd done. More than he could say. Better than he could ever tell them with words.
He balled up some newspapers and dropped them on the throw rug, then picked the kerosene lamp up and smashed it over the floor, lit another match, and waited. In his hand, the flame of the match broke into pieces on the shaft. Ben Warren would do it, he told himself, turning the match in his fingers to keep it lit. Ben Warren was a man. Ben Warren wouldn't hesitate here for a minute. Ben Warren would do it and smile. Ben Warren would be proud of himself. Let it go, let it drop. Ben Warren would just laugh. Ben Warren would make it a big deal--high fives all around. A man would just do it, he thought. A man would burn the place down and laugh. Like his old man. Just laugh. Something's his old man would do, sure thing.
The night sky was clear when he walked back towards the lake and sat, still in his sweats, alone on the crown of the beach, the moon still scattering sparkles over the rough hide of the water, the sky dark as velvet spread with stars, the cottage--the love nest, their cottage, Grandpa's cottage--completely hidden in darkness, but still there, still standing. No flames. Quiet and still. With the edge of his hood, he dried his eyes.
Behind him, the sound of waves lapping. Like rain at night. You can listen to that all night long, he thought--just listen to a mystery. Like looking into a fire. You can sit and stare forever.
He took a wooden match out of the pouch of his sweatshirt and lit it with his fingernail. You can sit and stare for hours. He pulled the match up in front of his face, flicked his wrist and twisted it out, then looked at the lake, so gentle it seemed untouched, a field of soft gray darkness no single disc had ever cut. And beyond and over it, a sky and a hundred million stars in galaxies so far outside of anywhere that nobody had ever dreamed they existed. Black holes big enough to swallow continents. So much out there, so very much.
There's things that are bigger, he thought. There's got to be.
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