lodestar

short fiction

Photo by Cullan Smith on Unsplash

Dad caught us once, coming out the woods with his lighter. His pudgy ham-hand slapped me sideways with a dry thwap! I hit the ground, palming my cheek. What the hell did I tell you? He loomed over me, raised arm hoisting his shrunk beater up his paunch, hairy belly button leering. I swore we'll never do it again, eyes tight, bracing for a blow. He issued a damn right! nod and put his arm dove-like 'round Beck. He kissed her forehead goin' you alright, sweetie pie? and stole her home. 

Shame on the bastard for forgetting promises aren't worth a damn. 

Shame on the bastard for forgetting good things come to those who wait.

Two Saturdays later, there he was, sawing logs tits up on his shit-colored recliner—his Zippo wedged in the menagerie of empties foresting the coffee table. Beck slithered her little arm like a carny claw and plucked it out. She held it sky-high with a huzzah! face, a nascent joy-shriek bubbling in her throat. I shot her a finger-to-mouth hush! and swiped the red gas can from the garage.

Beck practiced cheerleading as we ran, hollering C-H-E-E-R, everybody CHEER! CHEER! strutting 'round Mercury-like with imaginary pompoms. I called her a dufus, to which she stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes. DUFUS!—she squealed as I play-shoved her, falling forward, her arms windmills. She whipped 'round quick, hunched over in a cartoonish southpaw, weight shifting left right left right, blonde hair curtaining her face like Cousin Itt, Stick 'em up!

I struck a northpaw and threw some shadow punches goin' psh psh psh. We circled 'round in the tall grass, sizing each other up, fists hovering moon-like. I stuck my tongue out and broke off, sprinting towards the woods, shouting over my shoulder—last one there's a buttface! She gave chase with a plaintive Hey!

We raced like hounds, jumping over logs, kicking up leaves, dodging branches like Matrix bullets before reaching the clearing, me first, Beck hot my heels—No fair!

The new quiet of the woods made me think her voice was mine.

We stood, winded—weary pilgrims returning to the holy land. We shed the gas can and Zippo at the lip of our makeshift pit and dashed off to procure the day's offerings. 

We reconvened with our goodies: dry branches, browned moss, punkwood, crumpled water bottles, cardboard, bark shards, an old shirt, a glass pickle jar, pinecones, a doll head, aaaaaand…, Beck said before supplying a drum roll, rrrrrrrrrrr—she pulled a dead toad from her hoodie pouch with a Voilà! and tossed it on the pile; it landed with a wet plop.

I couldn't help myself; I got on my haunches and poked the toad with a stick. He was a great fat lump, his webby limbs frozen stiff in an X, smiling and splayed like a skydiving Buddha—he's gotta be the finale! I looked up at her. She smiled down, beaming with pride.

We set to work. Beck arranged tinder in the pit while I readied the gas can. She must've been sore 'bout losing the race. She started teasing me 'bout Darcy—how it's clear as a bell that I'm in love with her. I shrugged it off, hardy har har, keeping my rubied cheeks secret, but Beck was relentless—Danny and Darcy Sittin' in a tree…

My chest went tight. I tried to laugh, but my hands flickered into fists. I poured a little gasoline on my hand, turned 'round quick, and flicked it at her. 

She gasped, bringing her hand to her face. Undeterred, she teased on, louder, with pompoms now—K-I-S-S-I-N-G! 

I drenched my hand and flicked again—First comes love—I got her in the mouth—then comes marriage—she dodged and started hurling rocks—then comes the baby—a rock whizzed an inch from my eye—in a baby carriage! 

Alright! Alright! I put the can down, hands up perp-like, Truce?

Truce! She said, wiping the back of her hand on her shirt, pausing to sniff at it. The air smelled like the garage, and her hair seemed damp.  

Out of nowhere, she started up again—K-I-S-S-I-N-G! I lunged at her; she scream-giggled, seeking cover behind a tree. 

Okay! Okay! Truce! She said. 

Truce. We spit-shook, thereby officiating the armistice.

I cleaned my hand on my pants as Beck finished prepping the pit. She flipped open Dad's Zippo and thumbed the wheel, sparks winking 'round her hand. The tinder went up quick. She snapped the Zippo shut and sat back. I started layering heftier sticks over the growing flames, angling them so they caught.

I sat next to her, knees pulled to chest. Our pupils becoming wolves, mesmerized by roiling flames. Flames expose the truest nature of things; how a thing burns is all you need to know.

We poked at the fire, feeding it offerings, watching them blacken and curl without a word. Dad was probably flying off the handle, cussing his behind off at poor Ma, but all I could think about was the toad.

I walked over to our dwindled pile, pinching its leg and holding it arm's length, letting it dangle over the flames. The bright white of Beck's teeth winked like flint sparks. I met her gaze with a double-chinned M'lady? look, complete with regal curtsy. She offered approval by way of posh golf clap. 

The flames swarmed him like famished piranhas, jostling him around and waving his stiff arms at us. 

We waited for the flames to show us who he was. 

[…]

Nothing. 

Beck blew a raspberry and grabbed the poking stick, crouch-waddling closer to investigate, poke poke poke. 

Nothing. 

Poke, poke.

[…]

Nothing.

She looked at me, boredom eating her eyes. I blinked and began to shrug when the toad burst with a firecracker pop, his gasses shifting the flames towards Beck. 

The screams were instant, her hair went up easy. She stood, running in circles, swatting at her scalp before throwing herself on the ground.

I couldn't compute. I watched her rolling and swatting through fuzzed eyes, buffering. My face went funny 'round the nostrils, and my heart pulsed a sharp waltz in my cheek: one two three, one two three. 

I looked around. The woods were dark. Wasn't it sunny a minute ago? All light is coming from her, kissing my face with hot flutters as her charring edifice shines in the dirt, flesh abandoning her by the skinful.

A reflex told me to stand. My legs jiggled, shot through with pins and needles. I absently wiped the dirt off the seat of my pants, dazed. I slunk towards her, an infant approaching a dog for the first time. The reality of the screams finally hit me, pied piping my lips into a brief grin—a kiss-slap echoed in my skull. I stopped, shaking it off, trying to remember what to do. 

Once, on TV, two city slickers went camping, and the fire got out of control. While the opulent one freaked, the other extinguished the flames with dirt, digging like a dog, his rump in the air; a laugh track played the whole time. 

Next thing I know, I'm on top of her, straddling her belly between my legs, smacking her burning face with an open palm, over and over, each slap bearing my full weight. At some point, my palms became fists; the bone-on-bone thwap filling my throat with bile. I spat it into the flames, jiggling yellow loogies sizzling on her face. Between punches, I threw fistfuls of dirt and pebbles. All was quiet save for the sounds of dirt and fists and you alright, sweetie pie?

She was still, her face covered. I kept punching until the fire heeled, reduced to eensy tendrils of smoke weaseling out from the mound. I cleared an area for her mouth and collapsed beside her. 

Beck?! 

Beck?!

[…]

Beck?!

[…]

The air stunk of Ma's Goodwill hairdryer. I lay for a moment, calm as a Monk, revering my blistered hands, unable to stop grinning.

When Beck could speak again, she called me her hero.

After Ma begged, I agreed to show up for Thanksgiving—it may be your Father's last, and your sister misses you.

I timed it perfect: walked in late, golden turkey splayed missionary on the table, Dad elbow deep, fumbling about its innards with rheumatoid hands, smile-scowling under his little nose tube thing. I strode to the chair nearest Ma, farthest from Beck, keeping my head fixed on the plate, nodding every now and then—yes, yes, Happy Thanksgiving...good to see you...oh, you think so? I just got it cut—I'd just come from a haircut. A small five-foot-on-a-good-day girl draped me in a smock and went to and fro snip snipping, doing anythin' fur turkey day 'hon?

I watched the little hair-shards die in my lap, curling into fetal Cs—incredulous to find themselves shunned from my scalp-trough. Poor things—unaware they'll be swept into a hairy can by the receptionist or, if they're lucky, used to make a wig like the one Beck's wearing.

I peek at her in my periphery. I've seen it a few times before; it's hideous. The sight marches beetles down my spine into my ass crack. There's the tickle in my knuckles again, shit…keep it together, take a drink and sit up straight…rub Ma's boney shoulders, pass the yams when called upon—yes, yes, it has been a while….too long!…how are the kids?… work? Oh, it's fine, busy, busy, busy, ha!…oh yes, I heard, what a shame about the Avondale barn. Did they say how it went up?

Beck smiles, trying to catch my gaze from the opposite end of the table. She's sittin' right under the damn article Ma had framed: Local Boy Saves Sister! She holds her hand in front of her mouth while she eats. Through her thin skin, I see her exhibitionist tongue poking at the turkey Ma had blended into mush. Her wig seems off-kilter, and she hasn't done anything about the bulldog tail where her ear was.

My phone ringer goes off right on time. I act embarrassed and fumble in my pocket—Hello?…I see…mmm…can this wait? 

I feel them all staring.

I hang up and push my chair from the table—So sorry, all, big issue at work, can't wait, gotta go! 

I kiss Ma on the cheek, waving across the table at the strange chomping faces. Beck starts to stand, her mouth twitching, wanting to call after me. I powerwalk to my car; the door slams like a shot. Through the windshield, I see her in the doorway. It's pitch black, but she's clear as day; all light comes from her. She's just standing, hitching her skirt, contemplating trying the stairs on her own. Her shoulders drop, and she lets the skirt fall. She gives an anemic wave, her arm up as far as it can go. I flash my highs, honk a playful beep beep, and floor it.

Ma says Beck calls all the time asking about me. How strange; she never calls me. Why won't she call?

We both know that's a lie; Beck is relentless. She calls me at least once a week. I stare at the incoming call; BECK fills my screen, and I let it go to voicemail.

As the phone vibrates in my palm, I flip the Zippo open, strike it with one hand, and let the flame tickle my foot.

---

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