The Burning Side(7)

I walk toward the ruins, glass dust under my feet. Much of the house still stands strong, and the remnant strikes me as cruel. Through a splintered window, I can see furniture the fire didn’t touch. Which will mean decisions. Memories. I’ll have to salvage. I’ll have to work. And I’ll have to do all of this with the woman who used to be mine.

My throat suddenly burns and I double over, retching behind the boxwoods we planted our first spring.

April dashes from the car.

I straighten and pinch the bridge of my nose as the acidic taste subsides. “I’m fine.” I forge ahead, stepping carefully into the flood zone of our house. The smell alone is destructive: smoke and mildew, hell and high water.

The door of the half bath is off its hinge, wet sheetrock draped over the toilet like a jellyfish. The black-and-white hexagon tile is still in good condition beneath it. Cameron helped me install it a couple of years ago. April and I had different favorites, so we let Cameron cast the deciding vote. He chose my tile, and I love it even now, as a caterpillar inches across the grout.

Fortunately, I find our keys so we can retrieve our car.

Then I arrive in the kitchen, ground zero. Everything is black.

April joins me, lifting the back of her hand to cover her nose. Water is pooled around the refrigerator, and ash tree branches sway overhead. We stand unmoving as though maybe the clock will tick backward. Maybe shingles will resurrect, bowls will fly into cabinets, and flames will slink down off the roof, leaving everything cold to the touch. Cold enough for no fire to catch. Cold enough for divorce.

A page of a bloated cookbook rustles in the breeze, with a broken plate beside it. I imagine a wedding guest choosing those plates from our registry, watching a retailer wrap each one in tissue paper.

On the far side of the fridge, there is an undamaged piece of paper with its corners curling around magnets. I step into the puddle and put my fingertips to it—a picture Sadie drew of us, one crayon line of black for my hair. At the top, the word FAMLEE.

This is the same room where April and I faced off last night, and it’s as unrecognizable as we are. She was boiling pasta. I told her I got a lawyer’s number, and she forgot to turn off the burner. A simple mistake, like so many of life’s devastations.

As though we’re inside the same memory, she asks quietly, “Are we getting divorced? Is that really what you want?” Her eyes get pink, and I feel trapped. After everything she’s done wrong, I’ll be the man divorcing his wife after a house fire. And she has the nerve to use the word want as though we’re discussing birthday gifts.

“What kind of question is that?”

She looks down. “An urgent one, since we’re homeless now.”

I flinch. She has no right to that word, not like some of us.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out. Kim again. She texted earlier this morning to check on us. News travels fast, and tragic news even faster. She’s my closest co-worker, but the only response I could muster was to tell her that we’re okay and are staying with April’s parents.

I look down at the screen.

PEOPLE AT SCHOOL ARE TAKING DONATIONS. DID YOU SEE THIS?

I tap on an article from the Denton Record-Chronicle. A photo of our dilapidated house appears. The caption reads: Argyle High School history teacher Leo Torres, his wife, April, and their two children narrowly survive house fire.

The words blur. His wife, April…their two children…

My phone vibrates in my hand. I’M HERE IF YOU NEED ANYTHING.

I shove it back into my pocket as April hands me something, and I blink. Bear Bear. I turn the stuffed animal over in my hands, examining it. Sadie has had Bear Bear since she was born, and she already asked about him this morning. We assumed he was gone. I almost reach for April in the profound relief of holding this little smoke-heavy bear.

My wife. Our two children. Narrowly survive…

A sliver of Sadie’s room is visible down the hall, her sooty quilt on the floor. I remember the fear of last night like I remember the fear I felt when we first brought her home to that room. An ash seed helicopters down into what’s left of our kitchen, and I remember it all.





APRIL


2013

WE CLOSE ON A SOLD-AS-IS house in Argyle that’s shaped like a U. We have four acres, good bones, and great imaginations. It’s an hour outside Dallas on a quiet property with cottonwood trees and an unambitious creek. The wedding is only a couple of months away, and we’re doing most of the work ourselves, hoping to make the house livable by September.

A few days after closing, we’re outside painting. We’ve been at it for hours, and I keep stealing glances at Leo. I tighten my ponytail as he stirs a fresh can of paint, and I get a rush of pleasure at the movement of his shoulder muscles beneath his white T-shirt.

“Hey.” I go to him and comb my fingers through his hair. “No one I’d rather rip out moldy carpets or set up rat poison with.”

He chuckles. “Same.” He looks from the paint can to the bare-wood shutters, growing cutely serious. “Though I don’t think we got enough of the navy paint.”

I frown. “You mean the black paint?”

“It’s navy.” He points to the label. “See? Midnight.”

I giggle. “You think midnight is navy?”

He stands up, irresistibly close. “You think it’s black?”