“Hey, Matthew,” and then just, “Thanks.”
He ran like a Goddamn warrior.
He was truly the lightning Achilles.
* * *
—
In the end, it was close to evening that day, on that first anniversary, when Rory came to his senses; he said, “Let’s burn the bed.”
Together, we made the decision.
We sat at the kitchen table.
But there was no decision to make.
Maybe it’s a universal truth of boys and fire; the same way we’ll often throw stones. We pick them up and aim for anything. Even me, edging close to nineteen:
I was supposed to be the adult.
If moving into the main bedroom was the grown-up thing to do, then burning the bed was the young one, and that’s how I bit the bullet; I took a bet each way.
Initially, not much was said:
Clay and Henry were assigned the mattress.
Rory and I took the base.
Tommy, the matches and turpentine.
We took it out through the kitchen, into the backyard, and launched it all over the fence. It was roughly the same place, all those years earlier, where Penelope met City Special.
We got to the other side. I said, “Right.”
It was warm and a breeze had picked up.
Hands for a while in our pockets.
Clay had a handful of peg—but then the mattress went back on the base, and we walked out to The Surrounds. The stables were tired and leaning. The grass was patchy-uneven.
Soon we saw a distant old washing machine.
Then a shattered, lifeless TV.
“There,” I said.
I pointed—close to the middle, but nearer our place—and we carried our parents’ bed there. Two of us stood, and three crouched. Clay was off to the side; he was standing, facing our house.
“Is it a bit windy, Matthew?” Henry asked.
“Probably.”
“Is that a westerly?” It grew gradually stronger each minute. “We might set the whole field on fire.”
“Even better!” shouted Rory, and just as I started to admonish him, it was Clay who cut through everything—the field, the grass, the TV. The lonesome carcass of washing machine. His voice directed away:
“No.”