#6

This smell, the smell of wood burning, always reminded Tim of the time he almost burned down his parents’ house. There was a damp haze holding it in the air that made the taste palpable. Nostalgia snuck in, peppered between wisps of his cigarette’s smoke. From one drag to another, he always reconsidered whether it was something that actually happened or just a dream.

Tim left the company of his friend and crossed the street to his house. He had just spent the whole walk home trying to convince his friend to come over. It hadn’t worked. When he got to the brown, sheet-metal door, he discovered it was locked. He also knew that, being only six or so at the time, he didn’t have a key to the house.

This left a single recourse; Tim threw himself against the door shoulder first. Nothing. He did it again. And again. And again. On the fifth try the door burst open much to Tim’s surprise. He looked around afraid he might get caught breaking into his own house.

Tim’s parents were never home when he returned from school, busy at work flipping burgers and dipping fries. There was supposed to be a babysitter, but she’s been erased from this particular memory. It was autumn and there was a bite in the air. Tim walked into the house and went straight to the fridge for some grape juice. He turned on the television and sat a few feet from the screen picking a channel (this was before remotes were standard). He looked out the window thinking that maybe his mother would home bearing a Happy Meal. Consolation for being a latchkey kid. Thinking about it now, it seems silly to him that his parents owned a burger joint, yet brought him Happy Meals as a treat.

Upon looking outside, Tim decided he needed to build a fire. He knew there were two cords of wood in the garage, even if he didn’t know it was called a cord or what that was. He loaded the fireplace with wood and newspapers. The matches were next to it; they were long and made out of wood. The fireplace was a black, iron beast with golden coils around the handles. Tim had a scar just below his lower lip from running face first into one of its edges as a child. He never looked where he was going. His mother used it to roast yams and water chestnuts in the winter.

The first match broke. The second match broke, but not before it caught fire. He quickly slapped it out with a slipper. The third match came to life without breaking. The newspaper lit like it had been waiting for the match its whole life, and within a few seconds the rest of the papers blasted fire out the side of the fireplace. Tim jumped back and he looked around hoping an adult might hop out of the couch and fix the mistake of this fire.

A sudden realization fell upon Tim at this moment. Perhaps he should not have tried starting a fire. A desperate fear caught hold of him. What would his parents say? He would get into trouble, he was sure of it. So he did the only thing he could think of. He tried to put things back the way they were. This included pulling an ember-ridden log out of the fire with a pair of fireplace tongs. Tim walked the log from the fireplace to the garage, but he didn’t make it to the garage. He dropped the long on the carpet. Using the tongs, Tim flipped the log from the living room to the garage. Slapping out embers along the way.

After Tim managed to get the log back into the garage, he decided to cut his losses. He closed the fireplace and sat on the couch waiting. The less he did the better. About an hour later, his mother walked in with a Happy Meal and asking what that smell was. Tim said he didn’t know while standing on one of the larger burned areas of carpet.

Tim smiled thinking about the memory. There was always something satisfying and amusing about his childhood foolishness. He put out his cigarette and continued walking, occasionally sniffing the air on the way.

Later that night, while Tim was in his bedroom, sated by Happy Meal, he heard his father screaming at him to call 9-1-1. Thinking he must have miss-heard what his father said, he stepped out of his room and into the living room. There he saw his father holding his mother from behind with his hand in her mouth, his mother convulsing uncontrollably. A paper bag lay next to this odd dance. He father yelled again at his son to call 9-1-1. Tim ran into his room and shut the door.