Burnville

Originally published in ChangeSeven

Just like in high school, Mom picks me up in the Honda Accord with cardboard over the rear window and scratches all around the keyhole.            

“The guards must be crazy letting you out,” says Mom.

We pass by the burnt-out husk of a school bus on the side of the road. Main Street is now a row of empty parking lots. The Cozy Cable Car Diner looks like balled-up tin foil. The bait and ammo shop blew up, scattering shrapnel all over the kids playground across the street.

On the radio is a song about somebody named Earl having to die. Mom tries to light her cigarette with a grill lighter. She smokes with the windows shut, afraid of what’ll happen if a loose ember falls out.

            “Did anyone say anything about your face?”

            “A few,” I say.

            “You’d think they would cut you some slack.”

            “You’d think.”

            “Well don’t expect me to pay for plastic surgery. We got billed up the ass for repairs. Or did you think plowing into a school was free?”

            I flip the sun visor mirror down and take off the Michael Myers-looking mask. It only covers the bottom half, the parts that got all mangled up. I wasn’t exactly Scarlett Johansson before, but I looked okay. Shane thought so.

            “If you’d waited a month, it wouldn’t have mattered,” she says. “There wouldn’t have been any damn school to plow into.”

            The school is gone. So is the church, the Big 5, the Cracker Barrel, the CVS, the RV camp. 

Miraculously, Honey Bottoms Espresso Drive-Thru survived.

            Honey Bottoms is a giant cardboard coffee cup about the size of tollbooth. Their thing is teenage girls in bumblebee-print shorts who serve you iced lattes. My sister Ceci is erasing penises from the chalkboard sign. At seventeen, she’s finally starting to look like an adult, ass, tits, and everything. A trail of skater boys in the parking lot gawk after her. Some dads too[1] .

            “Hi Ceci,” I say.

            “Holy shit,” says Ceci. “I heard about the face-thing, but I thought it was just some road burn.”

            “Ceci,” says Mom.

           “Did you fight anyone in jail?” says Ceci.

            “I wouldn’t put it past her,” says Mom. “With that big mouth.”

            She looks at me.

            “Sorry,” says Mom.

            “Can we go to the house?” I say.

            “There is no ‘the house’,” says Mom. “Burned down. Remember? Didn’t I tell you in the phone call? Shit. I might’ve forgotten. Sorry.”

            “We’ve been staying at Uncle Pat’s,” says Ceci.

            “He’s putting us up in the guest house,” says Mom. “Everyone else lost their houses. Nana, Aunt Lizzie, Uncle Marc. They’re staying with Uncle Pat too. Lucky fucker. Not sure what the sleeping situation is, but we’ll find you a cot.”
            “You can sleep next to Uncle Marc’s stub,” says Ceci.

            “Ceci,” says Mom.

            “Sorry,” says Ceci.

            “But yes, you might have to share the pull-out couch with Uncle Marc,” says Mom.

            Uncle Pat’s house is huge. There’s nineteen acres of property and a creek that runs through it. He has four cars and half a dozen off-road vehicles parked in his garage, along with an antique streetcar that survived the 1933 Bernville fire. Outside Uncle Pat and Aunt Jolene are sitting on the porch shooting off Roman candles.

            “What the fuck are you doing?” says Mom.

“Easy, easy,” says Uncle Pat. “This is a perfectly controlled blaze.”

Then something hits me in chest and I topple over on a pile of Olympia cans. It’s Edwin holding his airsoft rifle. He’s thirteen. Possibly retarted. He wobbles like he can’t support his own body weight.

“I said no shooting today kiddo,” says Uncle Pat.

“But that was a good shot, yeah dad?” says Edwin.

“Yes, indeed it was,” says Uncle Pat. “But your cousin here just got done repaying her debt to society, so I bet she’s pretty worn out.”

“Holy crap,” says Edwin. “Her face looks like it was hit by a wood-chipper.”

“Like it went through a wood-chipper,” Aunt Jolene corrects.

“Well that’s what happens when you don’t wear your seatbelt,” says Uncle Pat. “They don’t just put them in cars for fun.”

“Are they going to fix her face?” says Edwin.

“Unlikely,” says Uncle Pat. “I doubt my niece over here can afford a comprehensive healthcare plan.”

“Do we have a comprehensive healthcare plan?” says Edwin.

“Yes, indeed we do,” says Uncle Plan. “As well as homeowner’s insurance and earthquake insurance. Even the cats are covered. So go ahead and knock yourself out.”

Slowly the rest of the family trickles in. There’s Aunt Lizzy who drove a bus full of kids out of the school right before it burned down. There’s Nana who started losing it after gramps died. She has these bouts where she confuses us with some girls she bullied in high school and says really hurtful things. There’s Uncle Marc with the missing arm. You’d think he lost it in a meat slicer or something, but no. He was just born that way. Everyone says that he’s a reformed pedophile. When I ask why, Mom asks why a forty-year old guy lives by himself in a trailer and never dated anyone.

“Hi family,” says Uncle Marc.

We try not to stare at the stub. Someone needs to tell him not to wear sleeveless Metallica shirts like that.

“Hi,” I say.

“Glad you’re back,” he says.

He looks at me but doesn’t seem to notice my face. Or care.

“You know, once in high school I took your grandpa’s car for a joyride,” says Uncle Marc. “But I couldn’t figure out the gears with just one hand. I ended up crashing it into the neighbor’s pool. Your grandpa sure blew up at me for that.”
            “Indeed, he did,” says Uncle Pat. “I believe he hit you in the driveway.”

“In his own way, Dad loved us,” says Uncle Marc.

I go help Aunt Lizzie with the cold cuts and celery sticks. Aunt Lizzie has tattoos on her forearms and gave me my first cigarette at twelve.

“Don’t know why they made a big fucking deal about your car crash,” she says. “It’s not like you hurt anybody. Even your boyfriend made it out okay.”

“Shane?” I say.

“Yeah. He’s right over there.”

Then as if by act of God a motorcycle engine pulls up in the driveway. It’s a baby-blue Harley with a tall lanky guy wearing a flannel and denim vest over it. He takes off his helmet, and I recognize that long greasy hair belonging to my shitty ex-boyfriend Shane.

“Howdy,” he says in his fake twang.

“Yee-haw,” I say, like in the old days.

“Hey cowgirl,” he says. He stares at my face for a long time, like he’s trying to put the pieces together. “They treat you good inside the joint?”
            “Great,” I say. “Cold biscuits and gravy, my own toilet, TV. It was perfect.”

“I thought about you all the time,” he says.

“What did you think,” I say.

“I thought: Wow, what a rad person. And how lucky any guy would be to have her.”

“So lucky you never came to see me.”

“I figured you didn’t want me to see you like this. You know.”

All I can do is scratch my jaw and nod. I look at the over-sized tricycle in the driveway.

“That’s new,” I say.

“The Honda melted in the blaze,” says Shane. “My parents bought me a new one.”

He beams like he’s talking about his own son.

“I have to go.”

“Wait,” he says. “What did you tell people about the, uh, accident?”
            “That there was a car crash. I was driving. And I wasn’t wearing my seat belt. And thankfully me and my loving, supportive boyfriend survived, which I’m grateful for.”

Shane smiles. I never liked his smile. It’s nefarious. It must’ve been hard growing up like that, always looking like he was up to no good.

“That’s awesome to hear,” he says. “You have a tremendous spirit. You’re what the Indians call Girl With Heart Like Bull. Honestly you don’t even look that bad. I remember seeing you with those bandages on and I thought you’d look super freakish. But this isn’t so bad. This I can get used to.”

“I really have to go.”

“Totally. After this I was going over to the dam to fish. The one where we knocked boots and you almost fell over?”

“It was very romantic.”

“See you cowgirl.”

I walk down the driveway. There’s a bridge over the little creek with Beaver sculptures that Aunt Jolene whittled. If I don’t have a cigarette right now, by god, I’ll murder someone.

A mile down the road is StopMart. I walk in and see two guys I sort of knew from high school behind the register. One still has his braces after all these years. The other has a harelip scar right below his left nostril. I walk up to the counter and ask for a pack of Spirits.

“Hey I know you,” says the braces guy.

“Was she in stats?” says the harelip guy.

“She was in homeroom,” says the braces guy. “And we never took stats.”
            “Lots of people took stats,” says the harelip guy. “Are you sure you didn’t take stats with Mr. O’Shaughnessy?”

“Must be someone else,” I say.

“I guess it’d be hard to remember what you looked like now,” says the braces guy.

“That’s fucked up to say so man,” says the harelip guy.

“Fuck,” says the braces guy. “Sorry.”

“You still talk to Shane?” says the harelip guy. “We always wondered about you and Shane.”

“I just saw him today,” I say.

“That must’ve been so weird” says the braces guy.

“Really weird,” says the harelip guy.

“It was fine,” I say. “Everything’s fine.”

“Damn you must be super chill,” says the braces guy.

“The chillest,” says the harelip guy.

“If my boyfriend banged my sister, I’d be pretty pissed,” says the braces guy.

“If she did, that’d be kind of hot,” says the harelip guy.

“I mean if I was a girl,” says the braces guy.

“Still kind of hot,” says the harelip guy.

While they debate hypothetical scenarios about what’s hot and what’s not. I think: What. Shane and Ceci? And: Is this why he never came to visit me? I grab the take-a-penny tray and fling it against the slushee machine. Pennies scatter everywhere.

“Woah,” says the braces guy.

“Maybe not so chill,” says the harelip guy.

“I think you should take your cigs and go,” says the braces guy.

“We have the right to ask anyone who we don’t want here to leave,” says the harelip guy.

“It’s cool to be pissed,” says the braces guy. “But like, you have to express it in a verbal/constructive manner.”

“Like Mrs. Boyd in counseling would say?” says the harelip guy.

“You never took counseling,” says the braces guy.

“Hell yeah I did,” says the harelip guy. “About my harelip!”

“It’s not so bad,” says the braces guy.

“I appreciate that,” says the harelip guy.

Their little voices fade away as I leave the shop. The bell above the door dings. A few used scratchers are littered around the curb. I know the sun will set soon. I know mom and Cici will be wondering where I went. I know Shane is fishing by the damn.

A mile down the road I realize I don’t have a lighter.

A car pulls up behind me. I expect it to be a cop or some other jack-off I knew from high school. Instead it’s Uncle Marc, driving his Trans-Am with one arm like it’s no big deal.

“Need a ride ?” he says.

“I’m fine walking,” I say.

“Everyone’s wondering where you went,” he says.

“I had enough family for one day,” I say. “Do you have a light?”

“I have the cigarette lighter on the dashboard,” he says.

Uncle Marc pulls over and kills the engine. I stand there and wait while the lighter heats up. He sips from a Gatorade bottle and scratches his stub. Then he points the lipstick shaped lighter at me and I poke my cigarette into it.

I take a few drags and wait for him to drive off. He doesn’t. Neither of us talks. It’s painful. Halfway through I toss the cigarette butt on the ground and wave him goodbye.

“You know, I was never angry,” he says.

“About what?” I say.

“I’ll give you two guesses,” he says.

He wiggles his a bare elbow where an arm should be.

“It’s just one of those things you learn to live with.”

“Thanks for the light.” I start walking down the trail that leads to the dam.

“Where you headed?” he says.

“To see Shane,” I say.

“Careful down there,” he says. “It’s getting dark. I knew a guy who fell into the creek and snapped his neck.”

He must know I’m not listening but still sits there in his car while I walk off. I go down the path to the dam. The scorched trees look like stubble on someone’s chin. My Converse are covered in soot and ash. I have this desire to take them off and toss them behind my shoulder. Then it’s just my bare feet on the grey sunken ground. For a second I don’t think about my face. But then it comes clashing back to me when I see Shane dangling his feet over the dam.

He’s holding his rod with the fishing line extended and a Rolling Rock in his other hand. The dam is about fifty feet high and looks down on a concrete walkway. The now blackened concrete survived the fire. Somehow the smallmouth bass are able to swim through it. The stupid ones get their lips caught on Shane’s hook and tugged out of the water. I hate fishing. Shane would drag me here and make me watch him until he got bored and wanted to fuck.

“Hey cowgirl,” he says.

I go to sit next to him, trying not to look over the edge. It’s a sixty-foot drop down there. I pull out another cigarette before realizing I still don’t have a lighter.

“Here,” he says. He hands me his ridiculous Sons of Anarchy one.

“So Ceci,” I say.

“Huh?” says Shane.

“You know,” I say.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Why did she say something?”

“She just turned seventeen,” I say.

“I know. I was at her birthday. We did a karaoke thing at Pat’s.”

“Was that when you fucked her?”

Shane rolls his eyes at me.

“It was a wild time,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if I would ever see you again. And while evacuating I couldn’t help but notice how much Cici reminded me of you. And she was totally game. So in a way, it was the closest I could get to you in that moment.”

“You’re a lying piece of shit,” I say.

“Let’s focus on the positive,” he says. “Which is that we’ve been reunited. Finally! And some day we can leave all this behind. Promise.”

This is one of his little tricks. It’s like some kid promising God that they’ll go to church more if they pass their finals. He said it that night when he drove us home from Benders’ Bar and Grill and ran into the flagpole. My face went straight through the windshield and hit the pavement. I’ll always stick by you, he said it at the hospital. But tell them you were driving. Because if my parents found out they would definitely lose their shit. And doped up on morphine, I said yes. Because I thought that was true love. And this man, while flawed, would pull through for me in the end. The man who gave me bad stick and pokes. The man who slept with my underage sister. The man who, once angry, said my father ran off with the supermarket girl because he hated me.  

“Besides,” says Shane. “Who else is going to stick by you? Like this? You should be thanking me. No. Praising me. Everyone will see us and think this guy could totally do better. And I could, which is why I’ll probably be knocking boots with other girls. But you’ll be numero uno. As long as you wear a mask. Even in the bathroom. You don’t know how much I’m sacrificing by doing this.”

“It’s fine,” I say like a reflex. “Everything’s fine.” Why wouldn’t it be? Why should I care what happens to me when my life is already as bad as it ever could be. Suddenly I feel my heart turn to stone, and I push him.

The fall is surprisingly quick. I look over and see him noodled all over the concrete. His body twitches a bit. I should go down and check on him. But I definitely wouldn’t be able to pull him up. And would he remember that I was the one who pushed him? Would I go back to jail?

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Then I hear a twig breaking, and it’s Uncle Marc standing behind me.

“Figured your mom would kill me if I didn’t offer you a ride one more time,” he says.

He stands there like someone coming home and seeing their dog tore up the couch. He sees the empty beer cans and peeks over the edge of the dam. He shakes his head a bit and goes tsk, tsk.

“Looks like your boyfriend got drunk and fell,” he says.

I nod.

“Looks serious. We should get help.”

I nod again.

“Too bad the reception out here is so bad,” he says. “And I doubt we could carry him back to the car. Maybe if I had two arms. I guess we’ll just have to drive to the nearest hospital and tell them to send an ambulance.”

He says it like it’s no big deal, as if a flat tire or a mosquito bite would be more irritating.

“Let’s hit the road kiddo.”

I follow Uncle Marc back up the trail. Its dark. He uses his phone as a flashlight. Once in the car he turns on the heat and we take off. Somehow he’s able to keep his hand on the steering wheel and fiddle with the radio at the same time.

“I was sad when gramps died,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“By the way he was a hitter,” he says.

We pass by the Bernville sign. It’s held by a wooden grizzly bear. Behind it is a burnt bundle of sticks that used to be the visitor center. There was a picture of it on the news that said BURNVILLE.

“I’m sure he was an okay kid,” he says.

I don’t say anything. I just sit there calmly while we drive through what looks like a long dark tunnel with starts glued to the ceiling all the way to the hospital.

We take the long route.