Fantastic Metropolis

Before getting back in bed, he went outside to see if he had missed any wood. One heavy log hung over the edge of the porch, but it looked too long for the fireplace. He swept the flashlight around the yard. Icicles glittered in its beam. To his right lay the bay, its waters still; in the other direction a hedge veiled a large house, dark, probably sealed for the winter. The thermometer now showed ten degrees.

An ax hung from a nail beside the former woodpile. Thinking he could split the big log, he picked up the ax and hacked away, but only succeeded in knocking off shards of bark.

“Soon as I fall back asleep the fire will go down and I’ll freeze.”

He burrowed under the covers, but now he couldn’t sleep. That Are No…lot of nerve, renting the house in this condition. Lewis would never take advantage of someone like that. No heat. Are No heat. He said there’s plenty of firewood. See No wood. And Martha. Her fury formed a horrid beast, but only he witnessed it. She kept a good face for everyone else, but she was cold. She had a cold soul. Maybe he needed someone cold. So cold in this house. What would he do after the wood was gone? The wood was already gone.

He would burn some furniture.

“Are No’s precious cabinet goes first,” he said.

Either burn or freeze. Though really, the house wasn’t that cold, was it? He was overreacting. Likely there were more blankets… upstairs though… even colder up there… stay right here, under the comforter. Finally asleep, he dreamed of cooking beef stew in Are No’s meat-free kitchen, until the cold air woke him again.

He put on his shoes and went outside for the big log. It was too heavy to carry; he dragged it through the door, rolled it over the futon to the fireplace, and pushed one end in, thinking he would keep pushing it in farther as it burned. The other end stuck out several feet, where it rested on the edge of the futon. He lay down and watched the catch fire. It occurred to him that letting the log lie on the futon might be dangerous, but then thought, who cares? He congratulated himself for being so wicked with so little practice.

But he wasn’t finished. He returned to the porch for the ax and took it to Are No’s cabinet. He inserted the blade between the locked doors and twisted. The wood buckled and the latch snapped. Lewis threw both doors wide with one exaggerated motion.

This is what Are No kept in a locked cabinet? Four shelves, each covered with a layer of fishing lures. He carried one to the desk to examine in the light. Long and fat, tapered on one end, like a cigar with a filter. Red body, with green polka dots and blue eyes. A ring on one end, strands of hair and three barbed hooks on the other. Three barbed hooks on top.

The air felt warmer. Lewis spun around. Fire had engulfed the big log. He lunged to pull the futon away from the fireplace but dragged the log with it. The comforter began to smolder. Pain stabbed his hand—the lure—one of its hooks had punctured the skin of his palm. He ran toward the bathroom for a bandage, then stopped—no time—and picked up his backpack. Feeling safe in the open doorway, he stopped to ease out the hook. The point hadn’t penetrated to the barb. About to drop the lure on the porch, he changed his mind and pulled a sock from his pack, wrapping the lure so the hooks wouldn’t prick him again.

His journal lay on Are No’s desk. He wouldn’t leave it. Though the futon was burning, the fire hadn’t spread. A few quick steps brought him to the desk. While there, he picked up the phone to call the fire department, but the line was dead.

Cold fingers of air pushed smoke toward him; he hurried back to the door. Fire had spread to Are No’s green chair. The etching Lewis had liked hung near the door. It would be a shame for it to burn; he lifted it from its hook, then left.

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Ice hung from the branches, pale in the light of the rising sun. He broke off a piece and clenched it against the puncture. His hand hurt, but it hadn’t bled much. The wind battered him all the way to the train station; he warmed himself by maintaining his anger at Are No. He still couldn’t believe the man’s arrogance. Who would blame Lewis? No heat. Are No Heat. What a joke of a house anyway. But the so-called valuable art. He had saved the only worthwhile piece, and the clownish fishing lure. Everything else, the hundreds of other lures. Gone. Never to catch another fish, poor things.

He would call the fire department from the train station. Say he had been asleep when it started. No one could blame him. Say he was going home because he didn’t have a place to stay in the area. He hoped it took the fire department a long time to reach the house.

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Circus of the Grand Design is published by Prime Books in August 2004.

Robert Freeman Wexler’s stories have appeared in various magazines and anthologies, including Polyphony, The Third Alternative, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, and The Journal of Experimental Fiction. His novella, In Springdale Town was released in 2003 by PS Publishing and reprinted in the Best Short Novels 2004. In 1997 he attended the Clarion West Writer’s Workshop. He currently lives in Yellow Springs, Ohio.