A Ghost of Fire Read online

  Chapter Two

  When I walked into my studio apartment an hour later, the message light on the answering machine was blinking. I dropped my keys next to it on the counter and walked away without pushing the playback button. I was afraid it was my mother inviting me over for the weekend again. I couldn’t stand the endless sympathy diners with the obligatory lectures on how I really should have found something to do by now.

  “I can’t deal with another weekend of that, not right now.” Not when I’d had a possible victory that day. I wanted to wait for confirmation that I had in fact gotten the job first. Then I could face the parents again. Then I could do it gladly.

  I also set down the plastic bag of Chinese take-out and the rented DVDs on the small coffee table between the futon and the modest sized TV. The TV had been manufactured in the early 90’s when they still weighed at least thirty pounds and were awkward to handle because of their boxy shape. Garage sales and thrift stores were a bachelor’s best friend when there was a need for furnishing and short funds. The food and the movies were a little celebration treat for the interview and presumed win against unemployment.

  There was a little kitchenette just inside the door. I went to the refrigerator and pulled out the half consumed two-liter bottle of generic brand root beer. I then retrieved one of the six non-matching glasses from the cupboard and poured myself a cup. I got a fork for the fried rice and sweet and sour pork and headed into the living area trying to balance it all long enough to set it all down on the coffee table without spilling or dropping anything.

  I put one of the DVDs into the player, turned on the TV and sat down. My thoughts kept turning back to the interview and the near accident I’d witnessed. Between bouts of these stray memories I only caught glimpses of Bruce Willis blowing stuff up and narrowly escaping death. The movie just couldn’t hold my attention for more than five minutes at a run. The food, barely touched, was getting cold. An hour into the movie I finally turned it off and left it unfinished. I was too restless to sit and vegetate in front of the TV tonight.

  “I’ll try again tomorrow,” I promised myself.

  I sat back on the futon in the silence of the apartment, not knowing what to do next. It wasn’t that I was bored. I was distracted and until something could catch and hold my attention I knew I could be that way all night, maybe not even able to get to sleep until four or five in the morning. I hate nights like that, when the brain refuses to shut down because I can’t clear it of all the loose thoughts rolling around in my head like marbles on a shifting floor.

  I decided to get up and pace around the apartment until something was able to draw my attention long enough to kick start clarity for me again. I started out by pacing to a window and looking out into the darkening day. It had been lightly raining for a while and I hadn’t noticed. The wet pavement reflected the street lamps now blinking to life along the road. Tiny droplets of water condensed on the cars lined outside on the street, became thousands of miniature rivers coursing their terminating paths for a short while and finally were absorbed into the damp ground below.

  My mind was drawn away from this to a memory of a smell of ash. I wondered at this, trying to connect it with something. I puzzled at why I would think of the smell of something burning. I couldn’t remember where I had smelled it. I knew it was recent but I couldn’t connect it with anything else. I even pinpointed it as being that day, but I couldn’t seem to fix it into place. It was like something was blocking the view of my memory. And just like that it was gone again. It was shattered by another distraction. The phone rang, startling me out of my pursuit of a memory.

  I stared at it for a moment and held a microscopic internal debate about whether I should answer it or not. I didn’t want to talk to anyone then. But I also knew the longer I waited the more there would be to talk about later. Plus I would have to conjure an explanation as to why I hadn’t been answering the phone and I didn’t like lying, not even about something that menial. I was going to have to talk to people sometime later if not then. I lifted the phone from its cradle and greeted the person on the other end of the line.

  “Hello, Stevie!” It was my mother. I rolled my eyes. Let the guilt parade begin.

  “Hey mom, how are you?”

  “Oh, I’m fine Stevie. I was just calling to check up on you, to see how your job search is going. Is there anything new?” As always there was a subtext. This was one of my mother’s favorites. It went something like, “A thirty year two old man like you should really have a more stable life. Why when your father was your age he…” and on and on it went.

  “Well mom, I actually had a job interview today. I think I have a pretty good shot at getting this one, too.” I knew what was coming next and braced myself. The inevitable suspicious question would rise from deep within her mind, float to her lips, travel fifty miles of telephone line and hit me right between the eyes like a bullet.

  “Oh, that’s so nice,” She said, then added, “What kind of job is it?” I hesitated, which was always a mistake. Mothers can smell fear like a canine unit at an airport can find drugs. I tried to be nonchalant, downplaying my own excitement at having any kind of lead on work.

  “Nothing much, just some janitorial work for a data processing company.” There was a pause and I could see, actually see, my mother roll her eyes on the other end of the line.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” She said not meaning a bit of it. “Well, it may be okay for now,” she added cautiously, “but it’s not really something you want to try to live on for long. Even if you do get it you should probably keep looking for something better.” I closed my eyes and rubbed them with the thumb and index finger of my free hand. I found that there were just some people in this world who refused to be pleased with any kind of progress. I believe all such people go to my mother for advice on how best to do it.

  “Yes, I know mom. Thank you. Look I don’t mean to cut this short, but I’m kind of in the middle of something here.” I looked at the blank TV and cold Chinese food. Yes, that’s right mom, I’m having a lovely party for one, I thought to myself. I hope you don’t mind but I’m in the middle of a stimulating conversation about climate change brought on by all the explosions Bruce Willis causes in all his movies. Watching paint dry would have been a more attractive option than continuing the present conversation.

  “That’s fine, Stevie, I just wanted to invite you to come home for the weekend.” Home. I was already home. My old bedroom where I’d discovered the music I loved and the brave new worlds created by Tolkien, Bradbury, Hugo and others was no longer home. It hadn’t been for years. I mostly enjoyed my early weekend retreats back there, but recently they had become more difficult. There was no outright hostility when I went back, but there was still something not quite right.