Our Hearts Will Burn Us Down (9 page)

This is so fucking stupid, she said. Everything happening, and this is what I choose to cry about.

Caroline Black's funeral is tonight.

I know. I saw it in the newspaper. My father, all of us are going.

We are, too. My mom and me.

How is this happening? Christina asked. How the fuck did this happen?

Zola watched Christina's hands bunch the afghan, clutch the yarn into the core of her fists. She knew this had happened by the hand of a boy who remained inscrutable to her beyond a gas station hello, a boy who walked into a high school's doors knowing he and so many others of his choosing would die. Zola wondered if he'd had a plan beyond a shotgun. What was random. What was deliberate. If he'd known which classroom doors he would open, if he'd made his way to the library or the gymnasium for a reason. If she could have died by forethought or if he'd only zigzagged his way from room to room, rattling guns against the railings. Zola wanted to respond to Christina, to offer some word of comfort, but there was nothing, no utterance or solace, no sound but the hum of cicadas and the rustling of the trees.

NICK READ THE
newspaper at the kitchen table, both of his parents at work though they'd called to make sure he was okay. His mother phoned from the car, a public defender for the city, her voice strained as she moved through the streets of downtown St. Louis. Nick's father's call was much quieter, a phone call placed from the solitude of his office, which overlooked the eastern edge of Forest Park, from Barnes-Jewish Hospital, where he worked as an obstetrician. I am fine, Nick told both of them. His brother in the living room watching cartoons, the sound traveling into the kitchen. He didn't know what else to say. He'd stayed up late in front of the blue glow of his bedroom computer, researching the construction of crime scenes, though in the end he'd found nothing of consequence.

He'd called Sarah's house that morning, her mother claiming
she was asleep and unable to talk. She still hadn't called back, still hadn't left the walls of her own home. A girl who'd spent hours after school in the choir room only days before, who'd planned to try out for the spring production of
Pippin.
A girl who chastised him for coming home by himself every day after school, no extra-curriculars or clubs, except yearbook with his closest friends. A girl who claimed once across the summer during their most heated argument in her bedroom that they hadn't had sex not because he worried about her welfare and future, but because he was always too much in his head and never enough inside the center of his own body.

He flipped through the continued
Post-Dispatch
features on gun safety, on updating school policies, on ongoing public memorials. Donation sites for the victims' families: where to offer money for medical bills of those who had survived with injuries, even where to donate frequent flyer miles to bereaved family members who would travel to St. Louis. A list of business openings, resumed events, what would return to regularly scheduled activity. The St. Louis Blues starting a new season, an away game against Denver, where the victims would be honored. The St. Louis Rams playing the Arizona Cardinals that evening, a
Monday Night Football
home opener that would air as scheduled but would hold a memorial before the game. Nick turned to an extended section of obituaries: a list of longer write-ups beyond what the
Post-Dispatch
had already printed, write-ups that included the most basic of information about each funeral service.

Jacob Jensen: Tuesday. Mr. Rourke: Wednesday.

Deborah Smalls: Thursday. Kelly Washington: Tuesday.

And tonight, six this evening: Caroline Black and her parents, Jean and Arthur.

Nick flipped back to the front page, its headline announcing the ongoing investigation of the Blacks' home. Information still sparse. Indicating only that burial would happen quickly, that no
bodies would be held for investigation. The orchestrations of a cartoon's introduction resounded from the living room, his brother watching another episode of
Tom and Jerry
. Jeff only nine years old, dismissed from Des Peres Elementary, the entire district shut down. Caleb Raynor drifting past the window of Nick's English class: a synapse firing inside his brain. He tried to imagine Caleb at nine, whether he'd watched
Tom and Jerry
or
Merry Melodies
or kept the television off for the wilds of his backyard. If there was any indication in his behavior that he would one day become a killer. Nick listened to the television warble down the hallway, his brother curled into the couch. He picked up the telephone and called Matt's house.

MATT SAT IN
the recliner of his family's living room reading
Slaughterhouse-Five,
a novel he continued for English class though he didn't know if the assignments would change, the schedule altered. His mother sat across from him on the couch, the book on President Bush in her lap. She looked up when the phone rang.

I'll get it, he told her. He anticipated the cinema's manager, that he was needed for a shift though he'd already spoken to her midmorning and agreed to return tomorrow. When he picked up the phone Nick asked without pause, Have you heard from your dad?

I'm going downstairs, Matt told his mother. Can you hang this up? He moved down the basement stairs to his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Have you seen the paper? Nick asked when Matt's mother hung up.

I saw it this morning. I didn't read it.

Caroline Black's funeral is tonight. Her parents', too. Nick paused. It just seems soon, he said. If they still don't know what happened.

My dad's at work. He's told me nothing.

Are you going? Nick asked.

Matt sat back on his bed. Of course he was going. They would all go.

I asked my dad about the fire last night, he said. He didn't tell me anything.

Maybe there's nothing to tell, Nick said. Maybe they know it was an accident.

I wrote about Caroline last night, Matt said. A profile. I couldn't sleep.

What did you say? Nick asked.

I said nothing. Nothing important. I have no fucking idea what I wrote.

I was up, too. Nothing we can use in a yearbook. Just crime scene stuff. How they handle an investigation involving so many victims.

Did you find anything?

Not really. Nothing you probably couldn't find out from your dad.

Matt heard Nick's breath halt on the line. A pause he recognized, one preceding a question. Does your dad know anything about motive yet? Nick asked.

About the fires? I told you, he didn't tell me anything about why it happened.

No, I mean Caleb.

Matt closed his eyes. A name he hadn't spoken, a name some newscasters were avoiding to privilege a list of names and their lives. He hadn't wanted to think of motive, as if there were a reason that could explain. Caleb in the cafeteria line grabbing a carton of milk. Caleb at his desk in the back of the room, his hand unraised. Caleb someone he never thought about until it mattered, someone who confronted Caroline Black in the hallway and left her on the carpet outside the second-floor bathroom for Matt to find.

My father's only working on the fire investigation, he said. But you read the newspaper. They say they don't know. Does it even matter?

I don't know, Nick said. Does it?

It won't change anything, Matt said. He imagined what the investigation entailed. Ransacking Caleb's room for journals, plans, schematics of the high school. Reviewing his computer if he had one, what files he'd deleted or online rants he'd posted. Receipts for ammunition, gun sales. When purchases were made. How a boy could buy a shotgun and a handgun and stockpile two other assault rifles beneath his bed, how a catastrophe in the making could slip so easily through so many cracks.

It won't change anything, Nick echoed. But it might help everyone move on.

Like a yearbook will? Matt said.

It's the only thing we can do, besides pretending none of this happened.

Matt sighed. What are we doing?

What he wanted to say: Can we even do this?

We're putting together a record, Nick said. An archive. As fucking impossible as that's going to be.

But why? Matt watched two oak trees sway beyond his window. Why would anyone want to remember this?

They won't. But they'll want to remember them.

Them. Everyone scattered like confetti across the industrial carpet of a high school. That there was a them, that something awful bound a random group together and without their consent, something a boy in their school had made happen. A binding they would never know, recognize, see, understand. That Nick was comfortable assuming what everyone left behind would want. That a future was possible. That they would live with this. That there was no alternative but to be those left to know this.

Do you want me to read what you wrote? Nick asked.

No. I'll probably just end up throwing it away.

We'll need to start something soon. Beyond just listing names for profiles.

Overhead Matt heard heavy footsteps, a trail from the garage door through the kitchen to the living room.

My dad's home, Matt said. I should go.

I'll see you tonight.

Matt replaced the phone and bent his head to his hands. His brow hurt, an ache splitting the space between his eyes. His gaze fell on his dresser. The profile. Crumpled on the wood's surface. He stood and grabbed the notebook paper, folded it four times, and slid it into his back pocket.

His father sat in the armchair by the window upstairs. His mother on the couch, the book on the War on Terror closed.

The department let us out early, Matt's father told him.

For the funeral? Matt asked. Why is it so soon? Her parents. They're barely gone.

We couldn't find anything, his father said. We did the autopsies. There was nothing to find.

Matt looked at his mother, who was watching his father.

Tell me, Matt said to his father. You both know something.

Matt, his mother said.

No, I'm tired of this, he said. His voice rising. Do you know what I saw? Do you? Do you have any fucking idea?

Matt's father closed his eyes. We know, he said. His mouth a firm line.

You know? Matt looked from his father to his mother. What, you told him? Did you call him this afternoon? Tell him what I saw?

Believe me, his mother said. We just want you safe and okay.

By keeping things from me? By lying? Just tell me! Just tell me what you saw!

There was nothing, his father said. Let me tell you this: there was nothing at all. I sat in the lab all goddamn day and found absolutely nothing, no hint or clue, no suggestion of what the hell happened at that house. There weren't any autopsies. There was nothing left. Nothing left to examine or understand.

Matt felt something escape him. He didn't want to hear any more.

I'm not a fire investigator, his father said. But I know there's always something left, something to investigate. Something that helps us determine a cause. Son, there was nothing left. No bodies. Nothing but burn and ash.

Matt looked at his father. What does that mean?

It means there was no trace of Caroline's parents. I've never seen anything like it. We don't know what it means. All we know is where the fire originated.

His mother was weeping. It's just awful, she whispered.

I'm sorry, Matt said. To his mother, and to his father.

We're just trying to protect you, his father said. As best as we can.

Of all the things his father could have said, five words that crushed him. As best as we can. He understood in his father's voice that he meant more than what a police force could do, that his parents ripped themselves apart for not being in the hallways where they could have never known to be and for not knowing when he was a child to buy another house, in another district, for not being there at the men's bathroom door to turn him away, to not look upon a carpet that would disfigure him.

Where did the fire start? Matt asked.

In the bedroom. His father looked at him. In Jean and Arthur's bedroom.

Matt recalled what Zola said. Was it suicide? Could they have done it themselves?

Matt's father was quick. It's possible, he said. We still don't know what started it. We're looking at the electrical wiring of their entire house, to rule out the possibility that they did this themselves. As far as we can tell, the fire started where they were sleeping.

Matt didn't want to imagine them: the bodies of Caroline's parents, bowed by hurt. Bodies that wouldn't be at the funeral beside
their daughter, only the empty shells of caskets. Bodies that had disappeared completely, leaving nothing but smoke and ash. Bodies curled into one another only nights ago in the softness of their sheets, sheets that would catch a flame and burn every last thing in their house to the ground.

CARBON DIOXIDE AT
6 percent: headache, dizziness, drowsiness, illness, coma.

Carbon dioxide at 10 percent: breathing threatened.

Carbon dioxide: heavier than air. Forms pockets of lethal concentration.

Carbon monoxide: percentages at 0.01 cause no effect for four hours. At 0.04, no effect for one hour. 0.06: headache, fatigue, queasiness within one hour. Percentages at 0.1: life-threatening within one hour. Percentages at 0.35: death within one hour.

Oxygen levels below 14.6 percent: collapse and unconsciousness.

Oxygen levels below 6 percent: suffocation, death.

Investigation: victim. Establish physical background, mental state, emotional state prior to the fire. Determine cause and origin of the fire. Secure medical records. Obtain fire reports from chief officers, establish the condition of a found building. Leave the body in place, moved only in the possibility of further fire damage before a medical examiner arrives. Inspect for bruises, broken bones, any sign of struggle. Make maps, diagrams, sketches. Check the burn pattern around the body. Note a pugilistic position. Note a charring of the skin, indication of death at the time of fire. Note what remains.

Note split skin. Bone fractures emanating outward. Loss of tissue. Protruding tongue. Steam blisters. Soot inside the mouth
and nostrils. Deep red to the skin. Indication of carbon dioxide in the bloodstream, lividity in colored patches as blood settles. Note particular damage to the head, indication of malicious intent. Note visible bite marks, cuts, claw marks, stab wounds, bullet wounds, defense wounds.

Cigarettes: the leading cause of fires in the home.

Bedding: the most common fuel source for home fires.

Night: the majority of fire deaths between 8
P.M.
and 8
A.M.

Wrap the body in a cloth sheet. Preserve the clothing.

Remove any dentures, bridgework, false teeth.

Circulate the body before removal with the use of photos. Canvass the exterior fire scene for witnesses.

Preserve what surrounds the body.

Preserve all artifacts, everything saved.