Iceland review - 2019, Síða 122

120
Iceland Review
tries to put out the fire. The people stand there, pow-
erless. The teenager lies on his stomach at the top of
the scaffolding. He holds his cigarette up in front of
the church tower—they are the same shape.
*
The little house goes up in smoke. The kitchen
is nearly gone. The outline of a table and chairs
remains, and pots with burning handles. The coal-
black fridge door opens slowly and inside it’s pos-
sible to make out half-empty jars of olives, butter,
plastic bags of salad, and an open pot of yogurt. For
a brief moment, these things are intact, until the fire
swallows everything. In the living room, a burning
painting is propped up against a wall, jars full of
turpentine shatter and the spatters feed the fire—
paintbrushes become little torches. The scribbles on
the wall disappear, erasers turn to ash, tools heat up
and glow, plastic handles melt. Papers are scorched
at the speed of light. In the corner on a box spring
mattress lies a man, passed out from drink; the fire
has soldered him to the steel springs.
*
Her bedroom is light blue, and the wallpaper is
bloated and warped. A faded picture of three girls
in a brown frame hangs atop the bulge. The mother
has always had the picture, but she’s never given
a thought to what the cross, anchor, and burning
heart mean. To her, they’re just sweet little girls who
have always watched over her. She sleeps lightly and
dreams about flies in butter and dirty hands clean-
ing themselves off on her nightgown.
*
The next morning, a scorched smell hangs over the
neighbourhood. No one misses the box spring man
and a long time passes before anyone even thinks of
him. On the lot where the house stood there’s now
a concrete foundation and the skeletons of kitchen
chairs.
The mother and son are playing cards in the kitchen
and drinking cold coffee. Outside, it’s snowing. The
stove isn’t on and the son’s nose has turned a pale
pink, his hands red. He wonders if he should get his
gloves and if it will be hard to play with gloves on.
He remembers that his gloves have been lying in the
dirty laundry and he doesn’t want to bring them into
the kitchen. He pulls a card from the deck.
– The washing machine just gave out.
– You’ll have to wash the clothes a different way.
– Oh?
– Yes, I take care of the kitchen. You do the
laundry.
– No, I mean, how?
– You’ll figure something out, bub.
*
There are now three big pits in the neighbour-
hood where before there were charred houses. Down
in the biggest pit, an artificial lake has formed. At
night, a few motley youths stand around and spit
into the water.
– Did you guys see the bodies?
– I heard there was only one. Wasn’t it just that
one dude over there?
– And a cat.
The teenager doesn’t say anything to the others;
he looks into the lake and pictures a charred cat.
*
The son is doing the laundry in the bathtub and sing-
ing. He likes this way better than having to go down
to the basement. He doesn’t want a new washing
machine.
The bathroom is small and cosy and he’s always
loved baths. He rinses the water out of the tub. Then
he locks the door, takes off his clothes, lies down in
the empty bathtub, and turns on the tap. He feels
himself becoming lighter as the tub fills with water.
His body becomes perfectly relaxed.
– I’ve gotta pee.
When he hears his mother’s voice, he opens his
eyes, sits halfway up in the bath, stretches a wet
hand toward the key in the lock, opens the door, and
pulls the shower curtain across. He lies back down
in the bath. The running tap muffles the sound of
peeing, but the smell’s still there.
– Why do you always lock the door?
– Everyone locks the door. Except for you, he says,
down in the bath water.
*
The bathroom door opens, and the son walks out.
He’s followed by a plume of steam.
– Finally. You always like to dilly-dally in there.
– I’m tired.
– Don’t you want to put on some clothes?
Fungus gnats glide around and land on the son’s
damp chest.
– Weren’t you going to spray, ma?
– Yeah.