Romeo Fails (23 page)

“Looks like one of those wand-style firelighter things, half-melted from the heat. Being around the corner of the house there protected it from totally melting. Maybe somebody dropped it in a panic, running away—people sometimes do that when their fires take off quicker than they expected.”

The three siblings looked at each other in dismay.

“You folks have one of those?” Luke asked.

“No,” Goodman answered, his face grim. “Not that I know of.”

“Shaw? Dorse?”

They both shook their heads. Dorsey added, “No, Luke. We’ve got matches, of course, but no lighter like that. Although we do sell them down at the store.”

“Sold any lately?”

Dorsey and Shaw looked at each other. She could tell he remembered the transaction just like she did. She could hear the voice in her head: “What’s up, La Puke?” The nasty voice of Justin Argyle. She could see him stuffing the change and his receipt in the pocket of his dirty denim jacket after he’d paid for the firelighter.

“What?” Luke and Goodman said the word simultaneously.

“Justin,” Shaw told them.

All of them turned to look for the younger Argyle. He’d been near the front of the crowd all along and had been pushed to the very front when the crowd surged forward. He’d been trying to unobtrusively weasel his way back down to the street ever since he saw Arlen find the firelighter, but the densely packed crowd kept him pinned on the lawn. He then tried to slide down the front of the line to a point where he could escape, but Good was too quick for him. For a big man, he was nimble on his feet, as many a former defensive lineman in the county could attest. A few swift steps, then he reached out and grabbed the back collar of Justin’s jacket, almost lifting the smaller man clean off his feet. It would have been an illegal “horse collar” tackle in a game, but no one was calling a penalty on Goodman in this situation. He unceremoniously dragged Justin, who was futilely clawing and kicking in an unsuccessful attempt to break free, back to the spot where Luke and the others waited.

“Easy there, Good,” Luke told his old friend, but the twinkle in his eye was unmistakable. Goodman reluctantly let go of Justin, but made sure he was still within reach.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Justin angrily demanded, looking furiously around him at the people now encircling him. He looked hostile and irate, but pathetic as well. His hair was a sweaty mess, his face unshaven and his denim jacket as filthy as usual, with a gaping tear in the sleeve of the left forearm.

“What’s this all about?” he snarled again. “If you think I set that fire, you’re crazy.”

It wasn’t clear who his comments were directed to, but Dorsey noticed he looked everywhere but at his mother, still doing her duty by the corner of the house standing guard over the half-melted firelighter. Dorsey looked away quickly after catching a glimpse of her white, agonized face. She hadn’t moved from her post, but was straining to see and hear what was going on with her only child.

Luke stared straight at Justin, who seemed unnerved by his silent, unblinking scrutiny. Luke looked at him without expression, but the contempt in his eyes spoke volumes.

After a tense moment in which no one spoke, Justin caved first and blustered, “Hey, man, you don’t even know that firelighter’s mine!”

Luke finally spoke. “What firelighter, Justin?”

There was a moment of silence as everyone realized the only way Justin could have known about the firelighter—which was out of sight on the ground at his mother’s feet—was if he had seen it before. Justin’s face was as white and twisted as his mother’s as he began some angry retort. But Luke’s words stopped him cold again.

“Fingerprints oughta settle it.”

Everyone looked down at Justin’s grimy, but ungloved hands. He jammed them in the pockets of his jacket as if he could hide his guilt that easily.

Shaw chimed in, “Doesn’t look like you’ve washed that jacket recently, if ever, so I’m guessing the receipt is still in your pocket.” His voice was carefully neutral, but Dorsey could see the gleam in his eyes. Seeing his tormentor finally get his due was sweet indeed. Shaw had turned the other cheek long enough.

Justin looked at him with hatred, looked at all of them with hatred, but saw no way out. There was nowhere to run. Luke pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

Mrs. Gargoyle spoke for the first time. “Oh, no, Justin,” she said softly. Despite her size, she looked strangely small in that moment.

Dorsey had never thought she would feel sorry for Mrs. Gargoyle, but standing there in the yard, with the smoldering ruins of the workshop and the twisted remains of her father’s beloved tools which she’d never be able to replace, all she could feel was sorrow. For herself, for the workshop, for Gargoyle, and most of all, for Sarah and the love she knew she could never replace either. In the smoke and the darkness and the flashing multicolored lights from the emergency vehicles, she finally broke down and cried like a child as Maggie helped her into the house.

Chapter Sixteen

She ended up spending the night at the Bigelows. Goodman went back to the store, while Shaw said he would stay at the house, Dr. Melba still stalwartly by his side. Arlen had some of his firefighters stay too, to continue making sure no hot spots flared up overnight. The smell of the smoke and the knowledge of what had been destroyed was too much for Dorsey. She couldn’t stay at the house, not that night. Maggie understood and took her home with her.

At first, it seemed like neither one knew what to say to the other. A good bottle of wine, which Maggie had hidden in her sock drawer, helped the conversation along. She retrieved it after her mother went to bed, a grumbling Carmichael in her wake. Dorsey and Maggie stayed up till the wee hours, talking and crying and talking some more in the kitchen.

After her second glass, Maggie said, “I was so shocked when I found out about you and Sarah, Dorse. It was all I could think about. I mean, at first, I
thought
I was thinking about the two of you, but eventually I realized all I could think about was
me
—how I felt about it, what my reaction was, what my feelings were. I know this doesn’t mean much, if anything to you, but I prayed about it. A lot, Dorsey. And I spent a lot of hours talking with Pastor Reinhardt. I know Sarah thinks he’s kind of a jackass, but he really helped me to see how selfish I was being. He’s been through a lot with that Mariah, you know. He told me that being the father of a teenager has changed his perspective on a lot of things. Anyhow…what I’m trying to say is, I realized that Sarah is my family and if I love her—and you know how much I’ve adored her, ever since I was a kid—then I have to love who she really is, not who I want her to be. Especially not some juvenile, eight-year-old’s vision of the perfect woman. I was being ridiculous holding her up to some imaginary standard I’d made up myself that had no relation to who she really is. I did some real soul-searching, Dorse, and at the end of that I realized: How can I say I love Sarah and then demand that she deny her very identity? It would be like me having to deny the things that make me who I am. I mean, what if I couldn’t tell anyone I’m a teacher? I love being a teacher, you know that. I’m
proud
to be a teacher. I can’t imagine having to keep that a secret that I could never tell anyone, not even my own mother.”

“Or your best friend,” Dorsey murmured, sipping her wine. It was a bottle of the white zinfandel Sarah so loved. Even with the fire, and Maggie’s confession, and everything else, her mind still ached whenever she thought of Sarah, her Sarah. Where was she? Was she coming back? Would she ever see her again? Hold her again? Tell her that she loved her?

“Exactly!” Maggie said fervently. “When the pastor made me think in those terms, I finally started to realize, just a little bit, what Sarah’s life has been like. What our family has made her life be like.”

She looked at her lifelong friend with pain and understanding. “And a little bit what your life has been like too, maybe, Dorse. I’m so sorry. I was such a…such a…such an asshole!”

Dorsey had to smile at such strong language from Maggie, who hardly ever used such words. And certainly not in her mother’s house.

“It’s all right, Maggie.”

“No, it’s not! It’s really not. I’m sorry, Dorsey—I feel like I completely screwed things up for you. No, let me finish. I need to say these things. I feel like I finally understand how lonely you must have been all these years, in this town.”

Dorsey felt like she should be polite and demur, but then thought: Why? Why should I disagree? She’s telling the truth.

“If I could never tell anyone I was a teacher, I’d have an awful hole in my life. Or, what if they wouldn’t allow me to teach in Romeo Falls just because I was a woman…or just because I was
me
…I love this town, but I realize it can be a terrible place as well. I guess I finally figured out that the Romeo Falls I know and love is not the same town you grew up in.”

They both thought about that for a moment. Dorsey couldn’t help but think about Justin Argyle as well. He too was a product of this town.

“What I’m trying to say, Dorse, is if you and Sarah found even a little piece of love with each other, then I should be happy for you, not tearing you apart. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for the way I’ve acted. I’m so, so sorry, Dorse. I was stupid and wrong and I’ve done you an awful misdeed. You, my best friend. I’m so sorry, Dorse.”

Dorsey reached over and embraced her bawling friend, patting her comfortingly on the back. She appreciated what Maggie was saying, but was also really hoping she was almost done. She’d had about all the drama she could handle for one twenty-four-hour period. But Maggie’s confession and her emotions seemed to be escalating, not diminishing. A small part of Dorsey’s brain wondered if Maggie was enjoying the dramatics, despite the painful subject matter.

“And the worst part is—” (there’s a
worst
part? Dorsey thought) Mags was crying so hard now that Dorsey could hardly make out what she was saying. Whatever it was, it came out in almost a wail.

“What was that, Mags? I can’t understand you.”

“I (sniff) said…(sniff sniff) I said the worst part is… GOODMAN ASKED ME OUT!”

Yep, definitely a wail.

Dorsey sat perplexed. This was certainly a week for the record books. First, Shaw with Dr. Melba and now Goodman had finally stepped up and asked Maggie out.

“Well…did you say yes?” Dorsey asked her old friend.

Maggie had her head down on her arms on the tabletop, still crying and sniveling. She paused and opened one eye. She swiveled that eye upward, as if to check on Dorsey’s expression before answering.

“…C-Can I?”

“Of course you can, Mags. If you want to, I mean. Hell, go for it, woman!”

“Really?”

“Really! For crying out loud, Mags… well, I guess you
are
crying out loud, so stop it will you and pull yourself together!”

“Okay,” Maggie half-laughed, half-sobbed.

The two friends looked at each other in the yellow glow of the kitchen light. And realized there was some additional pale yellow light just starting to show at the windows. They had talked so long it was dawn. And just like the certainty of the sun coming up, they knew that bad things would sometimes happen. Sometimes they would hurt each other and let each other down. But the constant remained. Maggie and Dorsey, best friends forever.

They were hugging it out when Mrs. Bigelow came in with Carmichael at her heels. He growled at both of them in a nonpartisan fashion. A dirty little cast on his leg clacked on the linoleum floor as he walked. He and his mistress had matching limps. It wasn’t funny—both Dorsey and Maggie knew that—but they struggled not to giggle. Dorsey controlled herself and started to say good morning to Mrs. B., but the older woman cut her off imperiously.

“Is that a WINE bottle on my table, Mary Margaret?” Mrs. Bigelow inquired of her daughter in a loud voice composed of equal parts shock, horror and extreme parental disapproval. Even Carmichael stopped growling and looked up at his mistress uncertainly. He decided to go hide under the table.

Dorsey looked over at Maggie, who had her eyes tightly shut, her hands gripping the edge of the table. She was looking rather pale. Dorsey wasn’t sure if she was going to faint, scream, throw up or what. As she watched, Maggie opened her eyes, looked up at her mother and smiled sweetly. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was simply that Mary Margaret “Mags” Bigelow had finally had enough.

“Good morning, Mother,” she said evenly. “I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you that I’m moving out next weekend. Pastor Reinhardt told me about a double-wide for rent down at the trailer park that one of the congregation owns. So you won’t have to worry about me or the wine bottle much longer.”

She stood up and put the bottle in the trashcan under the sink. Her mother gaped at her speechlessly, which Dorsey found to be a beautiful sight. Not to mention restful.

“And
you
,” Maggie said forcefully to a bristling Carmichael, snapping her fingers and pointing with undeniable authority at the doggy door to the backyard, “OUT!”

The wayward beagle turned tail and slunk out the door without so much as a yip. Mrs. Bigelow too cast a wondering and hurt look at her only child, then flounced out of the kitchen in a whirl of matching polyester robe and fuzzy slippers. Maggie stood proudly by the sink, head up, shoulders back until her mother had completely disappeared down the hallway. If her bedroom door didn’t slam, it certainly was closed very firmly.

Maggie turned to Dorsey, who was sitting there with her mouth half open.

“Holy cow, Mags,” was all she could say.

“That’s right,” Maggie replied, still talking tough. “I’m moving out. And if she doesn’t like it, well, that’s just too bad. I mean, if I’m going to start dating again, I need a little privacy, right?”

That was TMI for Dorsey, although she recognized the truth of it and applauded her friend’s decision. She nodded mutely. Various muffled thumps and bangs were now emanating from Mrs. B’s bedroom down the hall.