The Burning House

He had to cut through several police lines to approach the news crew, and later no one could be sure how he’d done it without drawing attention.

The crew was standing on the street in front of a burning house, filming a report. They had to speak loudly to be heard over the shouts of the firemen, the hoses running, the engines of the trucks. The man’s polyester suit was ash-smudged and he was missing a shoe. The young reporter was in the middle of a take when he interrupted her by tapping her on the shoulder.

She turned around. His hands hung loose at his sides.

The camera zoomed in on the piece of toilet paper still stuck to his neck, the razor burn dotting his jawline. The man squinted at the reflection off the lens and the camera tilted.

“What?” She said. She took in the cheap suit, the scuffed loafers, his Basset-hound eyes. He just stood there. His comb-over blew slightly in the breeze, and the smoke became thick. She coughed and waved her hand in front of her face.

“Let’s move a little, yeah?” The cameraman nodded and hefted the camera on one shoulder. They started to walk away.

“Wait!” The man said, reaching for her. He caught the sleeve of her salmon-colored blouse and she flinched. The man, hands raised, backed away. His mouth hung open slightly, revealing pink gums and small teeth. “Sorry.” He said. Sorry.”

The reporter inspected her sleeve and rubbed it between her fingers.

“You need something?” The cameraman approached, camera swinging heavily from one hand.

“I just wanted to-”

“We’re not doing interviews.” The reporter said.

“Oh.”

She turned back to the camera, fixed her hair in the reflection.

“Larry, let’s go on three, yeah? Can you see behind me okay?”

Larry gave her a thumbs-up.

“On three.” He said. “One-”

“I did it.”

The reporter turned to him.

“What?”

“I’m the one who…” He pointed behind them.

No one said anything.

“What?” She blinked. “Wait, you’re the one who…?” She looked over her shoulder at the flames then back at him, her eyes wide.

The man nodded.

“Are you serious?”

The man nodded again, eyes down.

“Oh my God. You’re serious, like really serious.”

“Yeah.”

“Do they know?” She pointed behind her.

“No.”

“Oh my God!” She spoke to Larry. “Do not let them hear us. Okay? Do not let them near here until we’re done.”

The man’s eyes darted between the reporter and the camera.

“I mean- wow! You’re serious. You’re not joking?”

“I’m serious. Yeah.”

She leaned in close, her eyes fixed on his.

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why’d you-?” She gestured at the house. A beam fell into the blaze, sending up a shower of sparks. Somewhere close, a woman wailed. The reporter wheeled around. “Is that her, Larry? Is it her house? Get a shot.”

Larry moved off, camera held to his face.

“Why’d you do it?” She asked again. “Why would you?”

He started to open his mouth.

“What’s your name?”

“Melvin.”

“Melvin?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, so? Why’d you do it?”

Melvin looked back at the fire and coughed when the wind blew in their direction. He watched the flames licking the neighboring houses. From every direction there was yelling. Neighbors huddled on their lawns. Some were in chairs, others clutching each other, talking but not taking their eyes off the unexpected display. One or two glanced at him, lingering on his bare foot. He patted his comb-over.

“I just got tired.”

“Tired?”

“Just really tired.”

“Of what? Was she loud or something?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged.

“Yeah, but what did she do? Was she doing drugs or something?”

“No. Her garbage cans, and her dog. It was always barking. At night.”

“Her dog was barking at night.”

He nodded hesitantly.

“You lit her house on fire because of her dog.” The reporter cocked a hip. “Are you really the one who did it? If this is a joke-”

“No!” Melvin held his hands up. She raised her eyebrows. “It just everything I guess.”

The reporter didn’t say anything.

“I was just tired. Of everything.” His hands swept in a wide circle, including himself. He looked down at his remaining shoe. One of the tassels was missing.

“Well where do you live? Which one?”

Melvin turned, scanned the block. He pointed at a large two-story at the end of the street. No one was on the lawn.

“You’re not even close, though. I thought you said something about her garbage.”

His leg started to bounce. “It was ugly.”

“You live alone?” She’d noticed the empty lawn too.

“No. My wife and sons. One’s eight and the other’s five.”

“Well where are they? Do they know?”

“My wife is picking them up from school now.”

She shifted her weight and glanced around for Larry, who was talking to a woman in a housecoat. She was crying and clutching what looked like a photo album. The reporter and Melvin watched her. Larry caught her reaction as the roof collapsed. The woman turned and ran toward the fire. A firefighter who was nearby caught her and prevented her from going any farther. She wailed. Melvin watched, his face unreadable.

Larry came back over, his camera swinging.

“You got all that, right?” She called to him.

“Yeah. Lady’s a fucking mess. He for real?” He tilted his chin at Melvin.

“What did she say?”

“Not much. Couldn’t understand her half the time. It’s loud.”

“What about the dog?”

“What?”

She flicked her hand at Melvin. “The dog. They get it out? Where is it?”

“She didn’t say anything about that. Sounds like she lives alone and left her propane on or something. I think that’s what she said, anyway. I don’t know, it’s loud.”

The reporter looked at Melvin. He swallowed. He was sweating.

“You said she had a dog.”

“What?” Larry said, looking between them.

“He says she had a dog.”

They waited. Melvin put a hand in his pocket and licked his lips.

“The dog died.”

“It died.” The reporter put a hand on her hip.

“Yeah. A week ago. I killed it.”

“You killed it.”

He nodded.

The reporter pointed down the street.

“Who lives there?” She asked the cameraman. He frowned and scratched his chest.

“No one, I don’t think. They put it up for sale a few months ago but I don’t think it’s sold yet. Why?”

“He said he lives there with his wife and kids.”

Larry shook his head “There aren’t any kids on this block. That’s why Jeff and his wife liked it here. Remember, at lunch they said that.”

She turned her eyes back to Melvin.

“He says there aren’t any kids living here.”

Melvin put his hand deeper in his pocket and ran the other hand over his head. Tendrils of hair fluttered across his pink scalp. The fire roared.

“So no one lives there?”

“Doubt it. Jeff said it’s been empty for months. Weird interior.”

Melvin wiped the sweat out of his eyes.

“You don’t even live here.” The reporter said.“Who even are you?”

“So, what, he’s lying, or-?” Larry asked.

The reporter looked disgusted. “Who are you?”

Melvin reached a hand toward her.

She turned to walk away. “We’re done.” Larry started to follow.

“Wait, please!” Melvin said.

“You’re lucky I don’t tell the cops.” The reporter said over her shoulder. “You’re lucky I-”

She stopped. Her hand shot out and grabbed onto the sleeve of Larry’s T-shirt.

Melvin had pulled a pistol out of his pocket and it was now pressed to his left temple. The fire reflected off the barrel and the reporter watched that.

“Please, wait a second.” Melvin implored.

Larry held up a hand.

“Hey, now-”

“Just wait.”

He gestured at the camera in Larry’s hand. Larry put the camera to his face. The lens clicked as it zoomed in.

“Listen, man.” Larry took a step closer. “Put it down.”

“Just wait.”

Melvin fumbled the safety off. The roar of the flames pressed in on them and a rush of hot wind ruffled their clothes.

The barrel dimpled the skin on his temple.

“Just wait.” He begged again. He was crying.

“Please.” The reporter said.

“Wait.”

On a lawn behind them, someone cheered and clapped.

He pulled the trigger.

Blood exploded out of his nose, his mouth. He fell to the grass in a heap. The reporter began to cry, her fist against her mouth. People on the lawns cried out, ran inside.

A policeman ran over.

“Hey! What the hell happened?”

There was commotion. An ambulance, which had only left a few moments before, now pulled back in. Two EMTs leaped from the cab and rushed to the body. Once they got a good look, they took their time going back for the white sheet, which they draped over it untidily. It began to stain red. The policeman began to string up tape in a square around it. The reporter and Larry were led away.

“I wasn’t filming.” He kept saying. “I wasn’t even filming.”

People came back onto their lawns and stared at the white sheet and whispered to each other. Then the walls of the burning house began to crumble. Sparks blew on the breeze and set smaller fires on the lawns, which were quickly stamped out.

Two more policemen appeared and milled around the body. They watched the fire, which had begun to consume the houses around it.

“Who the hell is that?” One of them asked, gesturing at the sheet.

The other shrugged. “No idea.”

“Huh.”

They turned their backs on the body. The house burned out of control.