An Unburned Home
By Calvin Sharpe
Daddy used to love telling me that story about the frog and the scorpion. He said that’s why you can’t count on second chances: there’s some venomous sons-of-bitches in the world.
If I’d had a second chance, I might have held on to that match a little tighter. I think about that sometimes at night, clutching thumb to forefinger ‘til I feel it start to bruise. Gives me goose bumps every time.
If I had held on tighter, the heap that was once our ranch-style would start gasping in smoke from the sky, a drowning man coming up for air, and all the ash and soot that got themselves lost in the heavens would come back to Earth like the rapture in reverse, glory hallelujah. And when heaven was done pouring storm clouds of what used to be our house back into itself, crackling like a slow-roasting barbecue, the still-burning walls would unfold themselves from the earth and stand up straight like they had some manners. Smoke would keep climbing in through our windows ‘til they pieced themselves back together, jigsaw puzzles of hot diamond solved in a blink. Then our roof would pluck itself up, dust itself off, and climb back where it belonged.
The firefighters would take back the water they brought, half-hearted, too late to save the house, but plenty early to stop the spread. They would snatch a blanket from around my shoulders and rush off ass-backwards, spinning those sirens, and on to the firehouse and into a deep sleep.
Then I would walk back in, of course. I’d step slow, steady, and barefoot back into our home. I’d slap my hand to my mouth and start holding back tears as I back-stepped through the no-longer-living room, past the little desk where Mama had once studied her bible, now sitting in its own little pit of hellfire. Maybe I’d admire how the fire clawed our walls clean, scraping away char to reveal unscathed paint. Maybe I wouldn’t look around at all, knowing that this might not be my last look at the house where I’d learned everything I care to know about the world.
I’d keep on fire-walking backwards until I’m standing still in a rising bath of flame right near the room where Daddy died, the den with the old recliner Mama had made him sleep on when she couldn’t stand the smell of him, and where he had kept sleeping after she was gone. I would notice all the heavy furniture that blocked that door from opening. This time I’d hear the sounds he must have made, the shaky kitten-scratching against the door growing louder and louder and louder, then softer again, back into booze-y snores, instead of what I did hear, which was my own breath and heart, loud enough to drown out judgment day.
And as the fire fell on itself, I’d see that slick stain of Daddy’s vodka on the floor. It was a whole bottle, all spilled out across our oily, torn carpet, and if Daddy was to be believed, it was the last one he would ever buy, because he was getting help in the morning.
True as that first part turned out to be, I’m inclined to agree with the second part, too. I think he meant business now that Mama was remarrying.
I’d watch the fire pull itself back to that little lake of liquor on the floor, one second a low sea of flame, the next drinking it down to a single drop, and then shooting like a rocket back into my clutching grip.
I remember that heartbeat of living air pitching a fit between my fingers, licking out at my knuckles like a hungry dog. I also remember those being some of the last moments with lungs that knew their business and damn well got it done; they don’t breathe so good anymore.
If I went back, I could have held that match ‘til it burned straight down to the skin and smothered it between my stinging hands like a dying animal when you’re all out of bullets. I think about going back to that room that doesn’t exist in a moment that only I remember and how easy it would have been to un-burn my home, my lungs, and my salvation-seeking father.
Yeah, if there was such a thing as a second chance, I might have even held on...
But then I wouldn’t have seen it. I wouldn’t have known without a doubt that I’m the reason you can’t count on second chances. Scorpions sting, after all. And I drop matches.
THE END