The Fire This Time

       The crackling flames were a time machine. They took him back to the past, to better times, to youth and vigor and laughter. He missed laughter. Everything now was sadness and anger. 

             He shifted in his chair, feeling his anger rise. He was wet again. Why didn’t somebody do something about it? The dampness was akin to a swimsuit, the recollection of which drew him back to the beach, the sun and surf and the coconut smell of the lotion sticky on his hairy legs. 

             “Does he even know I’m here?”

             Jeff was irritated. “He knows. He’s not a vegetable.”

             “But does he know why I’m here.”

             “Do you want to do this or not?”

             She sighed. What else was she supposed to do.

             Jeff gently shook his shoulder, but he was at the beach, sitting in the high chair, watching the girls and the horizon and the sparks in the fireplace. He loved fireplaces. They had lots of them here.

             The dog whined in his sleep. He liked sleeping on the floor right there where it’s warmest. You’d think with a thick coat like that it’d be too much for him. Dogs don’t sweat, not like people. The people were broiling on the sand, their hair hanging in limp strands plastered to the backs of their sunburnt necks. The wind made all the difference, blowing in cool and refreshing from the East.

             “He’s not going to sign it. At least not today.”

             She looked deflated. She’d promised.

             The dog growled, which startled her. She’d heard the stories. Everyone had. “Is he….?”

             Jeff cut her off. “He’s fine. Just let him sleep.” He had little patience for the minor obsessions of a librarian. He had more important things to deal with.

             “When do you think…”

             “No.”

             They both turned, startled.

             He glared at them a moment, his eyes angry pinpoints. “I won’t sign it.  Get out.”

             The librarian stammered, “But…” before Jeff shoed her out of the room. 

             He looked down at the dog. His ears were abnormally large, looking like a bat’s. His paws were drawn up and he lay on his side, occasionally batting at the air, like a poor swimmer dog-paddling and starting to get anxious. You had to be careful with them because if you weren’t they’d pull you right down with them. 

             He leaned down and rubbed the dog’s head right around those bat ears. He didn’t wake up but sighed contentedly. He was a good dog, although the help didn’t like him. They didn’t know how to treat him so a couple of the dumber ones got chewed on a little bit. 

             “You could have given her an explanation.”

             He was staring at the flames again. 

             “Dismissing her is a great way to cause problems for yourself.”

             “I can’t sign it.”

             “You could. If you wanted to.”

             “I’ll sign something else. Forget about it.”

             “She won’t, you know.”

             He shrugged. She didn’t matter.

             Jeff felt like he was talking to a brick wall. “Maybe just be a bit more diplomatic as all.”

             “Don’t tell me what to do, man.”

             Jeff looked at his phone. “The Doctor’s here. Do you want to see her?”

             “No.” 

             “She won’t listen. You know that.”

             She came in. She looked at Jeff, then at the back of his head.

             Jeff shrugged. 

             She looked like she had something to say, but thought better of it. Instead, she walked up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

             He ignored her. He could smell the salt in the air. He could hear the roar. The tide was going out. 

             After a few minutes, the Doctor turned to leave. She leaned toward Jeff as she headed toward the door. “He needs his…” (she wouldn’t say the word; he got very angry when anyone did), “…changed.”

             Jeff wrinkled his nose and nodded.

             She breezed out of the room. Visits were generally brief these days, unless it was the children. He always made time for the children.

             They sat in silence for awhile. 

             The logs were getting low. Somebody was going to have to get more wood. They could get it from the beach, maybe. With the tide going out you could usually find something; you just needed to dry it out a bit first. You need to know these things if you want to make a bonfire or have a clambake. 

             The flames flared, startling him. It was like a miniature Hiroshima or Trinity. Remember those black and white films of the burgeoning fireballs? Remember the shadows on the crumbling brick walls? Those shadows were people once. People always become shadows. Dust we came from, and to dust we shall return. 

             He nodded then, his jaw slack. The flames….

             The barking brought him back to reality, to this boring, awful place. Why had he ever come here? Why had they made him?

             “That’s enough, boy,” he said, and rubbed the dog’s head, right around those bat ears, just the way he liked. He settled down.

             You never really think you’re old. At first, you still see the child in the mirror. Then the young man. Then the man. Then your dad. Then your granddad. But it stops being you. How many mirrors do we look in without really seeing anyone we recognize in them? We’re all vampires in that way.

             The fire was dying down now, mainly embers. Where was what’s-his-name?

             “Is something wrong?”

             He glared at Jeff. “The fire….” He pointed a bony finger. At 80, sometimes the words eluded him, like those girls on the beach back when. 

             ‘I’ll handle it.” 

             “You’d better,” he muttered. 

             “You should sign it,” Jeff offered.

             “I won’t.”

             “Why not? They’ll wonder, you know.”

             “Let them. Not their business. Not yours either.”

             “Signing it won’t do what you think it will.”

             “Why dredge it all up?”

             “There’s nothing left to dredge up. Don’t worry. Sign it and put it behind you.”

             He could taste the ice cream. He didn’t want to jeopardize it. Or the Corn Pops at breakfast. People could get nasty if he didn’t do what they said. “I’ll think about it.”

             Jeff smiled. It’s all he could ask. Who gave a crap about ancient history anyway? It’s not like signing the release would provide a smoking gun. They were too smart for that.

             He shut the door softly behind him.

             He stared at the dying embers a long while then, not even noticing the buzzing in his suit jacket at first. All at once, something clicked, and he rushed to respond. “Yes, Mr Chairman,” he said pleasantly, the fog clearing. “What can I do for you today?” 

             He awaited orders, the fire forgotten this time.