Burning September (5 page)

I thought then that Breakthrough wasn’t as sunshiney as its name.  Patients might come in, but how often did they make it out?

And as Caroline launched into the story of
what really happened, okay, not this horseshit you’re hearing from the cops or on ABC 7
, the cinema in my mind woke and uncoiled, a cobra before its charmer. 

Her darling, dumb little sister didn’t notice, on the twelfth time Caroline swept inside the condo smelling of sun-scorched skin and vanilla, that she’d oh-so-secretly, silently, slowly closed her lithe fingers around the car keys so they wouldn’t jangle.  Bundled in a ball, easily hidden inside the beach towel over Caroline’s bronzed shoulder, I never heard or noticed a thing. 

Our condo complex couldn’t be bothered with assigned parking; residents were forced to duke it out for prime spaces.  Having never been bothered by the problem, Caroline often jammed her old Buick blocks away. 

Given the weather, her bikini didn’t raise suspicion, and poor soon-to-be-slaughtered Brian lived near the beach, where bathing suits never bat eyes.  

Isn’t it convenient we kept a gas can in the trunk?  Having run out of fuel on the side of the road had given both of us long memories and a desire to never repeat the experience. 

Her mind was a black blank, thoughts didn’t swoop bat-like from conception to planning to fruition, and she didn’t sing along with the radio on the drive. 

Brian’s car wasn’t there, so hers fit quite snugly in the spot his usually occupied.  Half-hidden by overgrown weeping willows and swaying blades of dying grass, she claimed not to have considered the notion that someone might make a mental note of the tall blonde in a bikini and sunglasses walking the perimeter of the property.  And it just so happened that Hailey Whatsherface was also a tall blonde who, on occasion, wore bikinis and sunglasses. 

Brian, bless him, had underestimated the whole woman scorned thing, and neglected to change his locks or remove the key he’d hidden beneath a boulder beside the back door.  Neither did he think much of housekeeping.  The overflowing ashtray on the back patio sat right next to his favorite Zippo, and Caroline had found that lighter very helpful when she’d doused the kitchen, half-bath and laundry room nearest the back door with gasoline.  The flames leapt like they were alive, turning curtains into thrashing walls of fire, snarling over trashcans and dust bunnies and shoes. She watched them gobble up the accelerant, weaving a path of disaster for a moment before turning on the heel of one bare foot and heading back to her car.

Too busy sleeping off the night before in his upstairs bedroom, Brian didn’t confront her.  His dismal home maintenance hadn’t helped his escape, and I was later told he died from smoke inhalation somewhere in the hallway off the staircase. Burning rubble had obstructed his exit routes. 

And on the ride home, Caroline had inexplicably thought of her sister, safely tucked away on the living room sofa.  I’ve been frightened of fire for as long as I can remember, after sustaining a large grease burn to my shoulder when I was three years old.  Our father had been predictably drunk at the time, and my screams had torn Caroline from her shower.  She’d thundered down the stairs, sopping wet with conditioner matting her hair, a robe stuck to her skin like a second sweaty layer of flesh, to find me curled in a ball on the kitchen floor.  She had to call EMS while she tended to me, and when paramedics finally got there, she’d bruised our father’s jaw and angry, ragged claw marks had bloomed on his throat. 

Why wouldn’t I be scared of fire too, then?
was the dull thought clanging through the vast empty space her mind had become.

Thankfully her senses had apparently returned, and at just the right moment to dispose of the gas can, the lighter, and the towel she’d spread over the driver’s seat of her Buick.  But she didn’t tell me where she’d tossed them.   

“I hope it was worth it.” I crossed my arms over my chest, cold nails biting into my skin.  “Look where it’s got you.” 

“I’m hoping to fix that.”  Her brow wrinkled when her gaze landed on the balding man who would later be dubbed Mr. Ferret.  “God, this is grim.”

I was no psychic, but I felt pretty positive it would only get grimmer. 

***

Of course you should accept the TA gig, what are you, retarded?  Unpaid positions are still positions, and it’s not often freshman get offers that like that.  I don’t want to hear one word about the rent and bills either, because I told you I’ve handled it.  Imagine when you go for job interviews and they see you’ve worked with Valerie Rasmussen?  She’s got a lot of influence, and obviously she thinks you’re fit for the job.  I didn’t tell you I’d sent her some of your work because you’re too modest for your own good, and it’s kind of a personality flaw, if you ask me.  How can you say the arts are only
my
thing when you’re just as talented?

I’m not sure what to think of my esteemed attorney, after what you’ve said about him.  Dodging his own client seems like a bullheaded move.  He might be a tough nut to crack.  Loads of those types of men think the world of themselves; he’s probably no different.  But I
am
interested in his interest in you, so maybe he’s got better taste than we think.  You know what sounds like a good thing, though, is that he was either

a)
    
Hitting on you, or

b)
    
Trying to rattle your cage.

Either way, no harm in finding out what his deal is.  If it’s option A, well then you’re a woman after my own heart.  I’m so proud I could burst these fucking lunatic scrubs at the seams.  B isn’t too bad either.  You’re no easier to rattle than I am.  The trick is to let him
think
he’s getting under your skin. 

Do me a favor and talk to Valerie’s undergraduate professor—he’s full of useful little tips, and if I know him as well as I think I do, there’ll be a lot more he can give you than advice.  His name is Jeff.  He’s hard to miss.  Lovable little geek, longish brown hair, kind of tall, lopsided glasses.  Looks fresh from an audition of Classic Clichéd Nerd #1.

I love you, Kitty.  Get back to me when you can, but I only get ten minutes of computer time a day, so I might not respond exactly forthwith.

***

My acceptance of Professor Rasmussen’s offer meant loads more hours on campus and plenty of dubious looks from students with seniority, no doubt wondering how on earth a dewy eyed freshman could possibly secure a position of that nature without any type of skill.  I couldn’t blame them, since I wasn’t sure myself.  A murderous sister could hardly be counted as an edge in the field. 

Contemporary Art Theory only served to make me feel all the more inferior as Professor Rasmussen stood at the front of the room, lecturing on speculative and reflective art practices and how to research experimental methods through the media. 

Clearly it made sense to her students, since nobody questioned a word.  The only thing she said that I understood was, “Ms. Smirnov, can you get the lights?” 

I flipped the switch next from my workstation at the deserted back of the room just as a man slid through the cracked door. 

I sat there in dutiful silence, hating every minute of the lecture as well as the subject matter, eyes glazing while I stared at the image the projector had splattered on the whiteboard.  Some hideous abstract piece that looked like nothing, the kind of work that supposedly
made you really think
, though all it made me really think of was how much I hated abstract paintings. 

The latecomer dropped his bag to the floor and took the seat next to mine, bringing with him the smell of earthy fall October.  I watched him from the corner of my eye for a moment before returning my waning attention to the whiteboard, where another piece I didn’t have the aptitude to appreciate had taken the place of its predecessor. 

Art wasn’t my thing; why did everyone insist the opposite, as if they somehow knew more about my personality than I did?  I was mildly ‘talented’ at vacuuming too, but I didn’t want to major in it or center my studies on housecleaning.  I supposed people all over the world had jobs they despised, but I didn’t want to add to their number. 

And it ought to be pointed out that most artists out there are actually waiters.  They couldn’t all be like Renaissance Caroline, jack of all trades, so gorgeous it almost hurt to look at her.  She rarely admitted her looks had helped enormously in her fast-track career, but one would have to be blind not to notice.  I wasn’t that way.  A positive self-image is healthy, sure, but I wouldn’t delude myself into thinking I had that same undefinable aura which drew people near.  Once in a while I had been told by some that I was not completely disgusting to look at, but Caroline Beautiful I was not. 

Churning through such thoughts brought Kyle Cavanaugh’s line about my
softer edges
to the forefront.  Soft, right, what he’d probably meant is I had double chins and baby fat.  Ass.  

So there I sat, accepting charity I didn’t want which concerned a field I didn’t like, and I was about to start feeling extremely sorry for myself when a soft throat-clear burst through my burgeoning pity party.

I’d never had a party of any kind before, so it was sort of irritating. 

Elbow propped on the desk, knuckles mashed against my lips, I tilted my head and lifted my eyebrows at the interrupter.

“Ms.
Smirnov
, she called you?” His forehead rumpled.  “Any relation to Caroline Smirnov?  Her sister, or something?”

“Yep.”

Looking a little dismayed at my lack of curiosity, he leaned closer in the semi-darkness and stuck out a hand.  “You probably get tired of hearing that, sorry.  I knew her, though.  Caroline.” 

I shook his hand so he’d take it back and gave him a lame
ohhh, okay.
 

“I forget what your name is.  Caroline spoke about you a lot, though.  Karen?”

“Kat.”

“Kat.  I’m Jeff.”

And also someone I should cozy up to, said Caroline.  But why bother when I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the subject?  “She told me about you, too.”

“Oh?” His teeth flashed in the momentary burst of white light as the projector switched images.  “Like what?”

“Like your name, and that you’re an undergraduate professor, or something.”

Clearly the news of how little she’d spoken about him left Jeff slightly crestfallen, but he tried hiding it.  “We were friends.  Pretty good friends.”

I nodding, finding that one a little hard to swallow.  Caroline didn’t have friends, she hadn’t the time to fit those into her packed schedule.  Admirers, acquaintances, plenty of
boy
friends.  But no friend-friends. 

“She was your age when I met her.  I’m only a year older.”

I started to nod again, but figured my mute routine might be construed as rude.  “Oh.  Well.  That’s cool.”

“Yeah.”

Awkward conversations are occasionally unavoidable; it happens to everyone.  How else are you supposed to meet new people?  Though I’ve never been one to relate to others with effortless subject segues and natural charm, so when Professor Rasmussen said something about wrapping things up, I took the out with a giant sigh of relief.

“It was nice meeting you,” Jeff and I said at the same time, in the same stilted tone.

***

As a freshman, I hardly got into the classes Caroline claimed I should take, let alone the ones I was actually interested in.  But that didn’t mean I couldn’t eavesdrop behind the cracked door of Music 101. 

It’s hard to gauge if a class is in session when it comes to music, unless there’s a lecture in progress.  The guitar solo I heard could have been the teacher, a student, a recording of some obscure musician.  Whatever it was, consistency didn’t seem to be a part of the melody.  Chords switched constantly, bleeding into what seemed to be a completely different track, and I was wondering what in the hell kind of musician invented the mess when I recognized a snatch of a Metallica song.  

I crumpled the wait list slip in my palm, moved to peer through the crack in the door, and found no class in session at all; just one gray-haired man, head bent over the guitar on his parched denim lap in the airy room.  Caroline would have shuddered at the patchy beard obscuring the lower half of his ruddy face and wondered aloud if he was a homeless man panhandling, by the look of his shabby chic attire.  But he didn’t seem much different from the art teachers I’d had through high school, sans paint smears and glazed eyes. 

Open blinds sent sunshine pooling onto the wood floor and lit the blank walls.  I’d never seen a room so bare—even our condo had leftover rusty nails and peeling paint when we first moved in.  Once Caroline got a decorating idea into her head, she chugged along like a freight train, gathering momentum until she finished her masterpiece.  Blank walls were her canvases, and she couldn’t look at one without catapulting into grand musings about ceiling murals and paint swatches.  But the mingled wonder and horror that came over most people who unwittingly stumbled into her designs was nothing compared to what it felt like as I stood there, half-hidden behind the crack in the door, seeing such emptiness. Nowhere on campus had I witnessed an utter lack of stupid inspirational posters, generic watercolor paintings, or corkboards piled with notices.