Bacon Fire

The twelfth chapter of the "She Died with Two Subscribers" series

photo credit: Frederick Medina on Unsplash

A significant number of disasters result from the best of intentions. And some of these calamities occur on the most glorious days.

Since the catastrophe on a brilliant Friday morning in July 1998, Will had avoided any discussion of the event for twenty-seven years. There is no point in remembering something that is intensely painful. It would always be there, like a massive boulder on one’s land. However, it is best if vines and, yes, even poison ivy, climbed all over it, partially obscuring it and making it unrecognizable. Time and nature, combined, can trespass on even the most inhospitable of monuments and obscure them to the degree possible.

Will stared out the window as the countryside rolled by incessantly like his thoughts about the past. This was one of the rare times that he couldn’t avoid contemplating this massive boulder from his childhood because he was about to clear the growth and show Nadine the ugliness that lay beneath the tousled brush.

“You there?” Nadine said, as she lightly touched his left shoulder.

He’d been supremely quiet since he picked her up about an hour ago—not unpleasant or unfriendly, just distracted. Her attempts to carry the conversation had not sparked a continuing dialogue.

“Yep,” Will. “Just thinking.”

Nadine thought of asking “about what?” But she knew Will was thinking about whatever secret he had come out here to tell her at the Watson Settlement Bridge. No matter what it was, he’d clearly been carrying it around inside himself for a very long time. And she appreciated that he was trying to entrust her with a secret that brought him pain. She hoped that when he let it out, he’d feel better. But she wasn’t going to press him to say anything further until he was ready. So she said nothing.

As they sailed up Framingham Road in Littleton, Maine, Will slowed and pulled off to the side of the road. The remains of the Watson Settlement Bridge—a skeleton of blackened beams—lay straight ahead of where he’d pulled off the road, just before the bridge crosses the Meduxnekeag River.

Will climbed out of the Skyhawk, and Nadine exited the passenger side and walked around to Will’s side. They walked slowly over to the side of the bridge and, as they did so, she reached over and her left pinky and left ring finger snared his very gently.

It was a partly sunny day. The clouds drifted overhead, alternately concealing and revealing the sun, as if they were undecided about whether the yellow orb was a secret they should reveal or not. Once you disclose a secret, it is out there in the world and one cannot control what happens with the information.

Will and Nadine stood, fingers locked, as the wind blew across the land as if whispering its own secrets. They looked at the charred bridge. The firefighters had done their best, and managed to arrest the blaze before the bridge completely disintegrated. But all that remained was the zig-zag of blackened beams that once supported the roof.

The wind gusted and caused Nadine to shiver. Will noticed and sighed.

“Well I brought you out here, so I might as well get started before you catch a cold.”

“Only if you’re comfortable, and if you’re ready.”

Will crouched down and sat with his back leaning on a charred vertical beam, and looked at the skeleton of the bridge that still managed to traverse the river. Nadine sat down next to him and tilted her head to rest it on the crook between Will’s shoulder and head as he began to speak.

“I’ll never be really comfortable with sharing things like this, or ready to open up. But I know that for us to have a relationship that isn’t superficial, you need to know what happened.”

They both looked at the water below as it rushed by, more eager than Will to spill its secrets.

“The best place to start is the beginning, I suppose.”

He then launched into the story with the sort of vivid minutia that only the mind of a writer can provide.

It was a brilliant Friday morning in July 1998. An eight-year-old Will Northcutt and his older sister Charlotte—three years his senior—were in the kitchen of the modest cedar-shingled ranch in Worcester, Massachusetts.

“This gonna be the greatest surprise ever!” Charlotte said.

“They’ll be so surprised.”

“Yeah. We almost never are up earlier than them.”

“Well they were out so late at Dad’s friend’s party. Right?” Will asked his sister for confirmation.

Charlotte nodded. “Yep. I wonder if he forgot that today is Ma’s birthday.”

“Probably not. This is one of the few things he always remembers.”

“I suppose. But they might be tired.”

“Maybe.”

“We need to be done before they wake up,” said Charlotte. “Get me the frying pan.”

“Sure thing,” said Will. He went over to the lower cabinet where his mother kept many of her pots and pans. He saw the frying pan and grabbed for it. In his haste, it hit the floor and made a loud clang.

“Shhhhhh! You gonna wake them!” Charlotte glared at Will.

Will hung his head despondently. “I didn’t try to make noise!” he protested.

“Just give it here!” she stuck out her right hand to accept the metal pan.

Will handed it over.

“Now go get the bacon out of the fridge, and the scissors.”

Will moved to the refrigerator, and spotted the bacon in its plastic pack, looking like a sweaty runner wrapped in clear foil at the end of a marathon.

He removed it and slid it onto the formica counter to the left of where Charlotte had placed the pan.

Charlotte turned on the gas. It hissed at her and then clicked as the pilot light flickered on.

Will had meanwhile found the scissors in the drawer, and dropped them on the counter, where they clattered.

“Shhhhhh! What did I say about waking them?” Charlotte said with alarm in her voice.

“What’d I do?” said Will, looking sad.

“You’re so lame!” Charlotte seethed.

“We’re supposed to be having fun,” said Will, glumly.

“Having fun with you is annoying,” sneered Charlotte. “We gotta have everything ready before they wake up. I’ll handle this and you make the fresh-squeezed orange juice. You remember how to use the machine, right?”

It only took Will a half minute tops to get the orange juicer out, and grab a few oranges, and line up the pitcher.

Meanwhile, Charlotte had freed the strips of fatty bacon from their plastic prison and had laid them side by side in the pre-heated pan. They quickly began to hiss and sizzle. Globules of fat formed and slid to the edges of the pan, where they boiled and popped.

It looked like it might take a while for the bacon to turn nice and crispy, the way her mom always made it. And she really wanted her mom to be impressed.

She turned her head when she heard the whir of the juicer, and watched Will for a minute. She suddenly felt a searing pain on her right hand as hot grease had leapt from the pan and spattered in a radius outside it on the stove top.

“Yowww!” she screamed as she pulled her hand back and fell to the floor.

“Now you’re gonna be the one what wakes them!” said Will as he diligently pushed an orange half into the juicer and twisted it against the plastic grooves.

Charlotte scrambled back to her feet and went to the sink to wash the grease off her hand. It had become very stifling in the kitchen with the stove on and the grease bubbling and popping, and she pushed aside the cloth curtains and opened the window above the sink.

She could feel the wind blow in as if a giant face peered into the house from the backyard and sought to cool her off. But instead of cooling her off, the breeze fed the flames in the pan. They leapt high, well above the pan, and Charlotte panicked as she saw them licking the wall.

She put the sink on full throttle and filled up a pot of water. She hurled it at the flaming pan with the goal of dousing the dancing flames.

The water smashed onto the pan, but rather than dousing the flames, it splattered them all over, including on Charlotte who shrieked in pain as some of it landed on her neck and face.

There was a small pile of newspapers that their father had left on the counter, which ignited when the flaming grease landed on then. The newspaper instantly caught fire which spread throughout the stack. Like an acrobat, the flames then leapt to the red and white cloth curtains above the sink. The wind gusted in and swirled about, helping the fire climb to the wooden cabinets and also leap outside the window to the cedar shingles. In less than a minute, the cabinets, curtains and shingles were all aflame.

“I better get Dad!” yelled Charlotte as she raced off, rubbing her face, toward the staircase which led to the bedrooms upstairs.

Will took action to eliminate the fire. He grabbed the flaming pan and poured the flaming grease into the sink, feeling skin on his forearms burning while he gritted his teeth and tilted the pan downward. He filled the pan with water and flung it at the curtains, but they continued to burn.

Will dipped the pan again to try again, when he felt something strong around his waist lift him from the ground. It was his father’s powerful right arm grabbing him, and then hoisting him over his shoulder, carrying him from the kitchen and outside the house to safety.

A short while later, his father, mother, Charlotte and Will stood on the front path watching the flames consume their house. It was the only home Will had ever known. His parents had purchased it with their meager savings the year that he was born. By the time the Worcester fire truck arrived, the home was all but a total loss. The main part of the house was gone, with the fire still raging in what was once the garage.

Will looked up at his father. He could see the smoldering flames reflected in his father’s pupils. He wished it would stop but he knew it was out of control.

His father eventually tilted his head downward and his eyes met Will’s and then traveled lower, looking at the frying pan that Will still gripped tightly with his right hand.

The wind whistled across the Littleton landscape as if surprised by the dramatic nature of Will’s story about the fire that destroyed his childhood home.

With her corresponding right digits, Nadine had grasped Will’s left pinky and ring finger the entire time that he took to recount his tale. When he was done, she looked adoringly up at him, but he continued to peer down into the chasm that separated the two sides of the Meduxnekeag River.

Will got up and Nadine rose with him. They were standing just a few yards from the charred skeleton of the bridge. Will suddenly felt unsteady, and walked over, still linking digits with Nadine, to the edge of the bridge. He raised his free arm up and braced himself against the bridge. The sun beamed down from the heavens and projected the lattice of blackened girders onto Will’s face.

Nadine was uncertain what she should say but felt she should ask something.

“What happened after that?”

“Our house was almost a total loss. We salvaged a few possessions but it was very little.”

“Did your father rebuild with insurance money?”

“No. He had insurance but not nearly enough. So we stayed with my mom’s brother for some months, and then we rented for years. It was only about a decade later that my parents were able to buy a new home. Just before I graduated high school.”

“That must have been tough.”

“Yep. And the whole time I felt responsible.”

“But you weren’t. Your sister started the fire.”

“But my father saw me with the flaming pan, at the window, with the fire shooting up all around me. So I’m sure he thinks it was all my fault.”

Nadine’s mouth dropped open in horror. “Your older sister, didn’t she say anything to your parents?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“So she threw you under the bus? How horrible!” Nadine gripped Will’s fingers too tight, and he winced.

There was a pregnant silence. Will felt he needed to sit. He sat down on the cornerstone of the dead bridge, his back leaning against a charcoal beam. He didn’t care that it’d leave a mark on his shirt. Nadine crouched and then sat down too. She rested her head on Will’s shoulder.

“I wouldn’t say that. I don’t recall that anyone in the family ever spoke about what happened that day. It was just too painful for everyone.”

“But you were only eight years old!” Nadine was shocked. “She had to know the impression was that it was you who caused the fire.”

“Well I wasn’t going to raise it. I knew how devastating it was for my father. He’d worked years repairing cars to save up to buy that house. And my mom, it was her dream house. She had a garden out back she tended to.”

“But didn’t they realize the toll it might take on you?”

“We’re not one of those therapy-seeking families. The Northcutts just clean up the wreckage, and carry on. No words necessary.”

“So what kind of relationship have you had with your parents since then?”

“My mom was the warmer, fuzzier parent. And a bit artsy. And she encouraged me to join the middle school and high school papers. So I got the writing bug due to her encouragement.”

“That’s nice.” Nadine smiled. “And you got your sensitivity from her as well, I think.”

“But she got sick with cancer a few years later and died the year after I graduated.”

“So sad,” Nadine gripped Will’s fingers too tight again. “So very, very sad.”

“Well there’s worse things,” Will said softly.

“Whatya mean, worse things? You lost your home and you must have felt at least partially responsible. That’s really heavy for anyone, no less an eight year old boy!”

“Well, no one was seriously hurt.”

“That’s true. But I’m not sure I understand how your parents didn’t talk to you about what happened.”

“I’m not sure it woulda helped. You’re gonna feel what you feel. Even at that age.”

“And what did you feel?”

“I felt uncertain.”

“Uncertain?”

“Yeah, uncertain.”

“Uncertain about what?”

“About where I stood. Or how my folks thought about me. More so my father than my mom.”

“What’s he like?”

“Hardworking.”

“Anything else?”

“Inscrutable.”

“How so?”

“You just never know what he’s thinking. He’s very even keeled. He listens. He doesn’t say much. I can never tell if he disapproves of what I am doing.”

“So you never knew what he thought about what happened?”

“Never. Not a word.”

“Even to this day?”

“Even to this day.”

“Oh Will, that’s so tough.”

“I’m not sore about it. I just hope he doesn’t hate me.”

“Do you think he does?”

“Probably not. I mean who wouldn’t feel upset if you were in his shoes? He might have been stunned, but he actually looked matter of fact. But he never showed anger, at least at that time. Maybe some others. But not about the fire.”

“So you don’t talk to him?”

“No I do. Usual every few weeks I call him. He almost never calls me.”

“What do you talk about?”

“Growing up, it was mostly about baseball and cars. He’s a big Red Sox fan. His favorite player was Carl Yastrzemski, their star outfielder, because Yastrzemski was raised on his father’s potato farm, and so my Dad thought he was humble and unassuming unlike many players.”

“And cars?”

“Yeah, my father’s a really great mechanic. And so the only times I really feel connected to him is when we’re working on cars together. He knows everything about all sorts of cars, and can figure out how to repair just about anything, especially the older cars.”

“My father likes vintage cars too, but he’s not terribly knowledgeable about them.”

“Well my father is. And most our discussions are about cars. It’s like we’re never going to talk about anything real important, but cars are a metaphor.”

“Men are interesting that way. They often can’t talk directly about anything touchy feely.”

“It’s a struggle. The best times I’ve had with him is when we’re covered with grease, and he’s helping me fix the innards of my Skyhawk. I feel very connected to him in those moments. But otherwise not so much.” Will paused. “I’ll never sell the Skyhawk.”

“That’s sad.”

“It’s just what it is. It was weird when my mother died. I thought maybe we’d grow closer, but we buried her, and things went on being the same between us except we had to fix our own food and wash our own clothes. Of course, I moved out of our apartment a few years after high school when I’d scraped together enough money after completing my roofing apprenticeship and going full-time.”

There was silence as Will looked down. A shadow from one of the beams wavered on his right leg.

“It must’ve been rough to keep that all inside all these years. Why didn’t you discuss your feelings with your mom?”

“My mom was sensitive. She’d had a hard life growing up, with my grandpa being a mercurial alcoholic and all. I didn’t need to bring up the fire and just cause her to think about what had happened. And then a few years later she got sick with the cancer, so I wasn’t gonna bring it up then.”

“You were protecting her.”

“Yep. My parents weren’t perfect, but they put a roof over my head and food on my plate every single day growing up. They drove me pretty hard to do well at school, and be respectful to folks. So I think I owed them some respect back, and that included not blaming my sister, and not raising topics that were sore. Better to move on, and just bury it.”

“No wonder why…” Nadine started and then stopped.

“No wonder why what?” Will asked.

“Well, you said you were divorced. It must be hard to form relationships when you were raised to keep your thoughts and uncertainties to yourself.”

“That’s what a man is,” said Will.

“It’s one version of a man,” Nadine replied.

“Well, talking about the fire is draining enough. And I’m not ready to talk about my relationships or divorce yet. This was enough theater for one day.”

Nadine didn’t hug Will, but she did lay her head back on his shoulder. “Well now I know.”

“Yeah, you, me and the bridge.”

Nadine chuckled. “I’m glad you shared it. I feel like I understand your reluctance to reach out better, and in my book, it makes you a solid man. You were an amazingly strong kid too, protecting your parents, and basically taking the assumption of blame so your big sister didn’t have to carry it around.”

“I dunno about that. I’ve just always been the same way.”

“Well I’m glad that you took me out here. It was a good spot to share your secret and it’s safe with me.”

Will smiled at her. The unsteady projections of the beams moved across his body as he guided Nadine back in the direction of the garnet Skyhawk. The bridge had its scars, and he had his.

And Nadine thought that maybe now he’d purged his soul of this hidden, unjust shame, he’d open up more and they could grow closer. But she also realized she had her own secrets that she wasn’t ready to share yet.

Their mutual musings were interrupted by the loud, spasmodic shrieks of a police car. They turned their heads and saw the flashing red and blue lights as it pulled behind the Skyhawk.

To read the most recent chapter in the Starting After Zero series, please click here. To read from the beginning of this series, click here.