Flames singed the curtains stained yellow from decades of cigarette smoke. Their fate almost made sense, and the effect of witnessing their destruction thrilled me. People would be asking if I did it. I would deny it.
I planted the green capsule of a lighter deep in my pocket and ran at the speed of light back to the farm where I dove into the hen house, head-first. The birds squawked and screamed at the intrusion. I kept an eye out for the rooster; we’d had our rows and I wasn’t in the mood. I buried the lighter in the straw knowing the hens could keep a secret. Plus, we clean the coop Fridays. This was only Monday: I’d time to think it over.
I stayed in there until I heard a car coming up the driveway. Could’ve been hours later. I must’ve fallen asleep nestled in and among the fowl. I wiped the spit off the side of my face with my shirtsleeve and walked out.
There was Uncle Bo sitting in his car letting the engine idle. I hated that. Knew it bothered the animals.
“Timmy, where you been?”
“I’m keeping the chickens company, sir.”
“Get out of there, boy, you’re covered in their shit, look at you.”
“When’s my mother coming home?” I asked him.
His face screwed up funny and he hit the gas making his way down the drive toward the side of the house where he parked.
I walked after him along the tracks his ugly car traced in the gravel.
He got out and limped into the house, a bag of groceries under one arm.
I followed him in, wanting to tell him what I’d done, waiting to hear if he’d tell me there was a fire at the house down the road. I was nervous. Trying not to show it.
He emptied the paper bag; taking out a loaf of bread, pack of meat, bananas, box of Fruit Loops. He made too much noise, taking too long to finish the job.
Clarence started barking.
I walked out to the front porch and looked for a car. For an adult. For anything that might come to find me.
Uncle Bo turned the radio on and started whistling. Still thrashing around in the cabinets, he was making lunch for us: grilled cheese, the smell of it coming out the front window. My dog was quiet now and sat by my side. I hung my feet off the edge of the porch and let them touch the top of the privet bush I tried to shape into a Mickey Mouse head last summer.
“Come on in and eat,” he finally called out.
He set the table, flatware banging onto the hard wood. And carried the sandwich over on the spatula. Flipped it off with a somersault onto my plate. Thud.
We ate our greasy sandwiches together, silently wiping slippery hands on pant legs when we finished.
“What are your plans for the afternoon?” he asked.
“None,” I said.
“How ‘bout you get out of the yard and go find another kid to play with. You have any friends? There’s a house up the street with bikes in the yard. You know those kids?”
“Those are the Ewan boys. They’re a couple of blockheads.”
“Better to play with blockheads than mope around here in chicken shit, right? I’ll drive you up there.”
I figured he had something important to do and didn’t want to feel guilty leaving me here alone.
“Why do you limp?” I asked him.
“Your mother never told you?” his right eyebrow raised up high.
“No.”
“I got run over by a box truck when I was nine. It backed up into me and my bike and crushed my pelvis. I’ve been crooked ever since.”
The story made me feel sad for him. But I didn’t let on.
“What’s a pelvis?” I said.
“It’s the part where your legs hook in.”
I pictured my Star Wars Lego figures and how their bodies were separate from their legs, and I could mix and match tops and bottoms.
I’d about forgotten my morning sin by the time my uncle made me get into his car stinking of garbage and old man sweat. I rolled down the window, stuck my head out and yelled “be a good boy, Clarence.” The dog ran after the car trying to bite the tires, numb to stones pelting his hide.
We pulled up to the Ewan house and sat still listening to the missus screaming bloody murder. “Goddamit, you two brats will spend the summer locked in your bedroom.” The twins were yelling and crying as she beat them silly. I’d heard it all before. Even seen it up close.
“Holy hell. You have any other friends?” my uncle said.
“What, you’re not gonna try to help them. Isn’t that what adults do?”
“I’m gonna try to liberate you from a dead end, kid.”
He threw it in reverse. I stared at the pile of dust we left behind.