I follow Clyde into the basement.
The week after Ronan’s house burns down… my narcolepsy goes hyper. Four or five times a day I wake up in some weird, inappropriate spot—under the kitchen table, on the boardwalk outside of Toby’s Rock Lobster, against the dumpster in the cramped alley behind the Jaybird. Eventually Uncle Dan brings me to the hospital for tests and observation, but there’s nothing wrong with me except perhaps stress, or so they say, and I’m prescribed Adderall for the narcolepsy, which I take once and, after a three-hour bout of vomiting and dizziness, refuse to take again.
During my hospital stay, Amy never visits; only Uncle Dan stops by both afternoons. His eyes on the wall clock, he tells stories about the Army hospital in Saigon where he spent a week after some shrapnel grazed his hip during a night patrol outside of Kom Sun. Before the story ends, I fall asleep, and when I wake up a lone nurse is standing over me with a paper cup of canned peaches and a plastic spoon, Uncle Dan long gone. When they release me, I head back to the Jaybird and manage to stay awake for a six-hour shift; we never discuss it further, and the episode is forgotten. The narcolepsy doesn’t stop but reverts to “normal.” Three days later I see Amy again, and neither of us mentions Mr. Ronan or the pile of scorched debris that used to be his home.
A bare lightbulb hangs at the bottom of the basement stairs, and Clyde’s shadow appears enormous as he ducks his head under a low beam. I follow him down, a dank, damp smell permeating the space; at least twice a year the basement floods—the hazards of living in a beach town. Clyde walks with purpose. It’s his house, too, at least on the mortgage; he passes the first shelf, where two propane lanterns and a pair of flashlights sit next to a portable camping grill, and heads toward the long metal filing cabinet pushed flat against the back wall. There’s a combination lock on the handle, and Clyde spins the numbers; the lock snaps open.
“She gave me the combination,” he says. “This is half my house, and we share custody of a daughter. Maybe things change when Jill moves out, but Amy and I, we don’t have any secrets.”
He pulls open the top drawer and shuffles through the hanging folders. “The lock keeps our daughter out, not that she’d be interested. But just in case. Every house has important papers, right? Insurance policies, wills…divorce agreements …certain drawings a daughter shouldn’t see.”
I don’t say anything but move closer, the single bulb flickering but keeping its glow.
Clyde pulls the manila folder from the drawer, the loose white pages stacked inside. “I found this in her bedroom, where Jill might have seen it. I put it down here, to keep it private.”
He flips open the folder, glancing at the first of the drawings.
“Too bad she dropped out of college and never took herself seriously,” Clyde says. “You weren’t the only one around here with talent.”
“I know.”
“Do you? To me, you could have done more to …whatever, nurture, inspire, encourage. I’m just the dumb jock with a badge…you’re the artiste. Maybe you should have helped her.”
Thunder looms over the house. Clyde rifles through a few drawings, then closes the folder.
“She should have told you. Maybe she wouldn’t be such a goddamn mess.”
My muscles tense, ready for the blow. “What is it?”
“See for yourself but wait until I’m upstairs. And if you’re curious, she knows what I’m doing. It’s her idea, not mine.”
I take the folder, hoping he won’t notice the tremor in my hand. Clyde grabs two flashlights as the beams shake, the thunder relentless.
“I think you already know what’s in there,” Clyde says. “I think you’ve always known, even if you never realized it, or acknowledged it, or whatever. Finding the right word for things is your job, not mine.”
An unexpected softness fills his eyes, sympathy or maybe pity. “She won’t get better until this all comes out, and whether I like it or not, this is part of her getting right again. She was my wife. That means something, you know?”
His heavy feet climb the stairs.
“Time to wake up, Donnie Boy.”
The morning after the fire I ride my bike to Mr. Ronan’s house, now a pile of charred beams, shattered glass, and chemical-soaked fibers, only the mailbox left standing. Yellow police tape rings the property; a pick-up truck is parked in front, and two investigators from the County poke through the wreckage. Neighbors have gathered in pockets on the other side of the street; in hushed speculation and the occasional booming laugh they contemplate the impermanence of just about everything and thank God that the fire didn’t spread to their homes.
I’m thirty yards away when I spot Amy on the sidewalk at the far end of the street, walking toward the debris, drinking from her grandfather’s flask, tucking it inside her black shoulder bag between furtive sips. Something keeps me in place, locks my feet on the pedals and freezes all motion; all I can do is watch. From the beach a kite has broken loose, its tail fluttering in the soft morning sea breeze, its pink diamond shaped body drifting back and forth above the remains. Amy pauses, watching the kite, standing on her tiptoes and reaching up, as if believing she might touch it. I’m certain she doesn’t see me. A wind gust blows the kite toward the ocean, scattering a colony of gulls.
When Amy reaches the house the two investigators, both drinking coffee from silver travel mugs, have their backs to the sidewalk; one of them smokes a cigarette, flicking ashes into the debris. Amy checks to see if anyone is watching, but while the neighborhood onlookers are still at their posts, the gossip hot and fast, no one really pays attention; for the moment she is
