Not me.”
“What?”
Jimmy’s voice rose. “Warren’s dead, Arthur! He got killed in there. By an explosion.”
Arthur shook his head from left to right. “What are you talking about?”
“He’s got chemicals in there. You know that. Bad stuff …” Jimmy’s voice trailed away.
The paramedic took a step toward Arthur and yelled, “The man inside the trailer is dead from an explosion. It blew a hole in his chest.”
Arthur pressed both hands against his ears. Then he yelled back above the roar of the blaze, “Where is he now?”
“In the kitchen area.”
“Why isn’t he out here? Why aren’t you working on him out here? Why aren’t you trying to save him?”
The paramedic took another step and explained. “I looked inside. I saw the man very clearly. He is dead. He is surrounded by volatile chemicals, though. We can’t remove him until the firefighters get here, put out the fire, and tell us it’s safe to remove him.”
The paramedic half turned at the sight of flashing lights. His right arm shot up and pointed. “Okay! Here they are! They’re turning up the road.”
Arthur looked confused. He finally asked, “You’re not leaving him in there?”
“No. I just explained to you—”
“No, I’m explaining to
The paramedic opened his mouth, but he stopped speaking at the blast of a horn from the fire truck. A voice called out from the passenger-side window, “Move this car! We can’t get the engine in!”
My head was whirling around—from the blaze, and the smoke, and the noise, and the rush of the icy water. Here was something I could do. I yelled, “I’ll get it!” and took off back down the hill.
Almost immediately, my feet flew out from under me and I slid to the bottom, my back caked with ice and mud. I hurried to the driver’s side, jerked the door open, and jumped in. I cranked the car key, dropped the transmission into gear, and lurched forward about twenty yards up the road. Then I turned the car off and ran back, as best I could, to the blazing trailer.
I couldn’t see Arthur anywhere.
The paramedic was gesturing angrily to his partner, and to the firefighters. Suddenly I heard an explosion inside the trailer, like the propane tanks at the Food Giant. The fire surged even higher into the night, bursting through a hole in the trailer’s roof.
I looked at Jimmy. He was staring, stunned, at the trailer’s front door. Then I knew where Arthur was.
I took off running toward that door. The paramedic made a move to block me, but he was too slow, and I slipped around him.
The heat got stronger, like a wall of energy pushing against me. I reached the trailer just as Arthur’s back appeared inside. His hood was up over his head. The top peak of it was on fire, like a small candle. His sleeves were on fire, too, at the elbow. He backed out rapidly, so fast that I had to scramble out of his way.
He was dragging a body after him.
Warren’s body.
Warren’s face was gray with death. He was wearing the remnants of that Haven High Football jacket. His chest had a large bloody indentation in it, the size and shape of a bowling ball.
Arthur kept moving, kept dragging, seemingly unaware that his own clothes were on fire. I sprang forward and drove my shoulder into Arthur’s, hitting him a solid blow, like a football block. He released his grip on Warren and fell backward. I could hear the flames on his head and arms hiss out on the watery ground.
Arthur’s face contorted in pain. His mouth opened, and he screamed. Then he flipped himself over spastically, rising up on his elbows. He started coughing rapidly, deeply, uncontrollably.
Somewhere behind me, the firefighters unleashed two streams of water onto the roof of the trailer. One of them barked at us, “Get back! Both of you! There are chemical vats in there!”
The paramedic grabbed hold of Warren’s body, just as Arthur had done. His partner joined him, and they soon had Warren away from the trailer. They fastened him to a stretcher and hoisted him into the back of the ambulance.
Jimmy and I helped Arthur rise to his feet. We led him, step by step, to a spot in front of the ambulance. Arthur dropped to one knee and stared at the ground, panting and coughing miserably.
Jimmy spoke in that haunted voice. “It was Warren. He was the one. He was doomed.”
The first paramedic returned to take a look at Arthur. He said, “You are injured, son. We need to treat these burns. We might need to take you to the ER to check out your lungs.”
Arthur hacked up some foul liquid and spit it on the ground. He managed to say, “Treat the burns. But I ain’t going to no ER. I’m staying here.”
The paramedic applied salve to Arthur’s ears, arms, and hands; then he wrapped both hands with gauze and tape. He lectured him, “I told you he was dead already. Didn’t you believe me?”
Arthur answered softly, almost to himself, “He didn’t burn.”
The paramedic asked, “What?”
But Arthur didn’t answer him. He spoke to Jimmy and me, his voice rising in intensity. “He didn’t burn, goddammit! He may be dead, but I didn’t let him burn.”
I nodded rapidly; then Jimmy did, too.
“He didn’t burn.”
The paramedic stared at Arthur for a moment, confused. Then he went back to wrapping the bandages.
From somewhere behind me, I heard Cody start to cry. Aunt Robin crossed in front of us, bearing him up in her left arm. She paused for just a moment to stretch out her right arm and touch the top of Arthur’s head, keeping her hand away from the burns. Then she stepped carefully through the mess and continued on into her trailer.
Jimmy trudged in after them. His feet were bare. His bony shoulders showed through his T-shirt. He had to be freezing.
I stayed outside with Arthur. He remained kneeling in the slop, his head bowed. The runoff water continued to flow around him. He was holding up a bandaged hand at a ninety-degree angle, like he wanted to ask a question. His lips were moving.
I leaned forward until I could understand. He was repeating three words in a low and barely audible voice, over and over, through choking sobs. The words were “I hate drugs.”
A minute later, a big vat exploded inside Warren’s trailer. It took out the entire kitchen area. The flames continued to lick higher, filling the dark sky with a hellish light.
It was all life and death, and water and ice, and fire and cold. When I finally took a look at my watch, I saw that it was ten minutes past midnight.
It was December 31.
The last day of the year.
Spring
The day after the fire, New Year’s Day, I sat down and started writing a new journal, this one. Because the old one, like everything else in Warren’s trailer, had gone up in the conflagration.
At first, I was in a panic, thinking that I couldn’t do it; that I had forgotten too much. But that was not true. I remembered everything very clearly. I wrote nonstop all day, and the next day, and for many days after, trying to
