Conflagration

LVII

Dawn again.

Patty Dixon stood at the foot of the open door and watched as blue light manifested over the cold bedsheets. The coffee pot in the kitchen behind her was rattling and she could feel its heat through cheeks that were bloated with fatigue. She had watched her uncle pass in the night and then left his family and headed home to see her son. To find out if what he'd told her was true.

The call came when she was resting her eyes in a plastic hospital chair, listening to the various monitors that slowly read out the remainder of the old man's life. She had been following what was happening in town through the website for the news station out of Knoxville. There were videos there of the fires and articles reporting on wild rumors of gunfire and evidence of trafficking in the wilderness to the west of town. Billy had been texting her to let her know that he was safe but she did not hear his voice until her phone vibrated in her lap and took her out of the half sleep she had fallen into.

She could hear exhaustion as he spoke. Silence behind it. He told her that he was home but wasn't staying. That he had decided that he would be going back to school. Her thoughts were still swimming back to consciousness as he explained to her that he had spoken to someone in administration and told them of their situation. That there were special grants for students experiencing financial emergencies and that they agreed to cover what little he needed without hesitation. She asked him when he was planning on heading back up and he told her that he would leave early the next day to beat the morning traffic. By the time she hung up she knew that the boy's story about where the money came from was a crock of bull. She could hear it. Something in his voice that only his mother could interpret.

When she pulled back into the driveway she could see tiremarks from the jeep and wondered how long he'd been gone. It was possible that she'd missed him by minutes. Inside she put on the coffee and paced around the kitchen until she found herself looking in on his room. There was sadness in his absence but it was suffocated by a greater feeling of relief.

She had dreamt while she was in the hospital, mashed and bent into cold furniture. Getting sleep where and when she could. She saw scenes of rising water and closing doors and when she woke she found herself hitching for air and clutching her chest, as if a weight was bearing down on her.

She had learned over the years that there was no mysticism in motherhood and even the most ignorant psychoanalyst could confirm that she was simply worried for her child. And as she stood and looked in on that empty room she felt like a portion of that weight had been lifted.

The Black & Decker pinged behind her and she went to the kitchen to pour herself a cup. It was still another hour and a half until her shift was set to begin. She thought about turning on the TV but the only thing on would be the news and she'd had about all she could handle of that. When she finished she poured another cup and let it sit to cool. The keys to the mail truck were on the counter beside it. She looked at it and remembered that one of the metal shelves in the back had come loose and would need to be fixed before she began her route.

The shed was out back near where the land began to rise up towards the distant ridge. She pulled the drawstring that cut on the lightbulb above and fetched a hammer and a flathead from the toolbox on top of the plywood workbench her husband had built years before. She thought she remembered seeing the box of screws somewhere beside it but there was nothing there. She then bent down and fumbled through the shelf below until she found it under a set of gardening gloves, still muddied from spring rain. As she went back towards the drawstring something grabbed her attention. She scanned the room twice before she realized what it was.

There were rusted paint buckets stacked in the far corner. Cobwebs and bits of matter grew over them like vines. She approached them and saw that the lid to the can at the top of the pile was resting on the floor, as if something inside had sprung out while she was away. It was the same place she had stuffed her husband's notebooks after his death. A place where she would no longer be forced to look at them but wouldn't have to endure the finality of throwing them away. She looked into the can and found it empty.

Outside the light was growing on the land. She stood over the pile for a long time, staring down as the shadows began to dissipate around her. Eventually she leaned over and picked up the lid and hammered it back into place. Then she walked back towards the house, swinging her tools and smiling.