Spontaneous Human Combustion

1.

REPENT

IN THE BEGINNING, there was no pattern to the sacrifice, merely one more thing to clean up after a long, hard day—no reason to believe that I’d brought this upon myself. No, it was just another violent moment in a series of violent moments—so many mornings waking up in the city, the Chicago skyline vibrating in the distance, my knuckles tacky with dried blood, gently running my fingers over my bare skin looking for bruises, indentations, and soggy bandages. In the kitchen, the sound of laughter—my son and wife crisping some bacon, a million miles away. The decapitated squirrel on my front stoop, I stepped right over it, hardly seeing the fuzzy offering, as I headed out into the snow, boots on, leather coat pulled tight, the bourbon still warm on my tongue, my belly filled with fire. The blue feathers tied into a bouquet, lashed to the wrought-iron fence; they fluttered in the wind, and I barely noticed.

I should have paid more attention.

I huddle close to a metal trash can, the flames licking the rim, my hands covered in dirt and grime, the black hood of my sweatshirt draped over my head like a praying monk, my legs shivering under torn jeans, my skin covered in tiny bite marks, slices up and down my arms, eyes bloodshot, as I hide in the darkness, wondering how much time I have left. I stand at the end of the alley, three walls of faded red brick, eyes darting to the opening down by the street, waiting for something to lurch out of the snow that spills across the sky, the world around me oblivious to my suffering.

I threw it all away.

Perhaps we should start at the beginning.

It’s finally time to repent.

As a boy I liked to work with my hands, helping my old man repair a variety of cars—the ’66 Mustang in Candy Apple Red, the ’67 Camaro in that shimmering deep Marina Blue. Many a day and night were spent under a car, skinning my hands and arms while trying to wrench off a nut or bolt—oil and cigarettes the only scent. When my father would backhand me over the wrong tool, I’d laugh and grab the right one, as my blood slowly began to boil. It started there, I imagine—the anger, the resentment, the need to transfer that rage. Did I drop a wrench between his fingers, watch it smack him in the face—let the car door bang his hand, step on an outstretched ankle as I walked around the garage? Sure I did. But I never lowered the jack all the way down, letting the weight of the car settle on top of him, crushing him slowly as our black Lab ran around the yard, barking at cardinals and newborn baby rabbits. No, I never let the sledgehammer descend onto whatever limb stuck out from under the cars; I placed it back on the shelf and handed him a screwdriver, a hammer, a socket wrench, and grinned into the darkness.

But the seed had been planted. Yes, it had.

I played baseball all through high school, outfield mostly, and on the days that we took batting practice inside, claustrophobic in a slim netted cage as the rain fell on the ballfields, I’d watch one of the boys pitch me closer and closer, edging me off the plate, laughing to his friend outside the cage, as I started to sweat. I’d squint and tighten my grip, ripping line drives back up the middle, as he kept getting closer and closer until he finally beaned me in the shoulder. The coach watched from a bench on the near wall, chewing his dip, spitting into a plastic cup, a slow grin easing over his face. He loved this kind of shit. They all did. The boy pitched again, and I smashed the ball right back at him, the netting in front of him catching the line drive, a sneer pulling at his upper lip. He pitched me inside, clipping my elbow this time, and I dropped the bat, cursing under my breath. As I slowly walked toward him, massaging my elbow, my arm a jumble of nerves, trying to get the feeling back, the coach said, That’s enough, and my time in the cage was over, the pitcher smirking as he tossed a ball gently into the air, then catching it again, muttering an insincere Sorry, man under his breath.

The garden slowly grew.

And the girl—I can’t forget the girl. The most stunning blonde I’d ever held in my arms, she was part of my church group, delicate and pale, and as mean as they came. She knew the power she held over young men, and she wielded it like a sword. I did anything she asked—writing her paper for English class, driving her to the mall, giving her money for a movie or clothes, never asking for much in return. She’d laugh as she walked away, but I was oblivious. All I needed was her pressed up against me, a wash of flowery perfume, her lips glossy on mine, her soft, wet tongue sliding inside my mouth as her hand rested on the bulge in my jeans, her blue eyes sparkling as she pulled away. I was hypnotized. Which is why I didn’t see them—the others, the phone chirping, her constant distraction—as she kept things relatively chaste between us, while spending nights with other young men. All it took was one party, an event she didn’t tell me about, walking around the house with a beer in my hand, searching for her, excited, only to head out onto the back porch, her mouth on his, tongues intertwined, his meaty paws all over her ass, my heart in my throat.

The weeds and flowers commingled, until they slowly became one.

It seems petty now, looking back, the ways I boiled over, the ways I was betrayed. Screws slowly turned into one wheel after another, until the car blew a tire, my father in the hospital—a broken arm and two black eyes, as I stood beside his bed while he slept, shadows in the corner of the room. Funny how a baseball player always seems to carry a bat, one in the trunk, for a quick round at the batting cage, nothing more, of course. I guess that pitcher shouldn’t have been trying to buy weed in a sketchy part of town, right? High as a kite, leaning against his shit-brown Nova, a quick rap to the back of the skull, my swing improved, busted kneecap, and his hands now useless for holding much of anything, let alone a baseball, trying to work his curve or slider. Spirits danced in the pooling blood. And the girl—I should have left her alone, I know, but her pretty mouth just set me afire. She liked her drink—it was easy to drop a little something extra in her cup and, later, to undress her so gently, leaving her in the bedroom of that frat house, so perfect in every way. I never touched her, and neither did the other boys. We didn’t have to. The rumors were enough. Gibbering words haunted the hallways of our school, ruining her for anyone else.

Up in a corner of my garage lay a bundle of twigs wrapped around a dead mouse—a dull red ribbon and metal wire wringing the wad of hair and fur, holding it tight. At the ballfield, up under the dugout, was a wasp’s nest, filled with birdseed and glass shards, a beetle at the center, a singular red hourglass painted on its back. Tucked into my wallet, behind a bent and faded picture of the girl, was a piece of yellowing paper, covered in hieroglyphics, a tree of life in dried blood at the center, my name etched into it with a razor blade. I brought this all on myself, but I never saw it coming.

Being a cop meant I could channel my rage into official business, and I was good at it, for a very long time. And then I took one shot too many, the kid blending into the darkness, his hands full of something, pointing my way, a gun fired, and then we fired back. In those moments, I was never a father, forgetting the face of my son. It was all a mistake; the kid never held anything but his cell phone, his hands out the window showing surrender, the pop in the night merely firecrackers down the street, my partner and I flying high on cocaine, eager to dispense justice, when none was needed—our offerings hollow and filled with hate. It was over before it began, both of us on the street, and I would have been bitter if it hadn’t been a long time coming. It was merely the straw that broke the camel’s back—running heads into the door frame of our cruiser, planting drugs on people we didn’t like, broken taillights, speeding tickets, young women frisked and violated in so many different ways, backroom deals over packets of white powder, promises made, seething eyes set back into black skulls, curled lips made of brown skin, the glimmer of a badge, the feeling of immortality, and none of it was anything good. I turned a blind eye to pyramids of broken sticks, smoldering leaves and smoking sage, barbed wire and antlers fused to skulls, flesh turned to sinew, bone to dust—evil incarnate, the deeds I’d done manifesting, coming home to roost.

How quickly I fell, the lies I told to cover up my losses, growing bolder and broader every day.

I had a new job now, fixing the problems of whoever would come to my new office. I’d taken over a crack house down the block from where I used to live, the doors boarded over, the windows too, squatting on the property because the daylight offered me no solutions. I’d sit in the living room, surrounded by torn and beaten-down couches, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, candles burning down to nubs. There was no heat, no electricity, and no water. I had my gun, and a thin layer of filth over my skin, taking what I needed from those that were too weak to fight back, hired out by men and women, drug dealers and cops, tracking me down to my rotting homestead or catching me out at whatever dive bar I could walk to. Around me the ghosts of my family flickered like a television set on its last legs, snow roughing up the faded screen, their voices haunting my every choice.

I’d stay sober long enough to take the pictures, showing the hubby diddling the babysitter; the wife turned to stone, lips tight, a few folded bills tucked into my swollen hands, her mouth opening and closing, chirping like a bird, hesitating, and then asking what it would take for that thing, that finality, not wanting to say it out loud. I’d nod my head and say I could make it happen, but there was no turning back; she’d have to be sure. She’d sip her red wine or her gin or her espresso, and I’d watch the gears turn, the innocence slip out of her flesh, pale skin turning slightly green, her eyes sparking, flecks of flame, the buzzing getting ever louder, her head engulfed in a dark ring of flies, until she opened her mouth, letting the snakes spill out, the deed done, as my heart smoldered black inside my chest. I never said No.

I’d sit in the back seat of a white Crown Victoria, radio crackling, the men in the front seat wrinkling their noses, the back of the car reeking of vomit, urine, and death. We knew each other once, I imagine, my descent into madness one slow step at a time, so gradual and inevitable that I hardly noticed the noose slipping over my neck, the poisoning so subtle that the bitter taste on my tongue never overtook the lust and hunger, my mouth filled with blood and bourbon, cigarette tar coating it all, as I rotted from the inside out. They’d hand me various things—ammunition, directions, names, addresses, knives, wire, rope, tasers, and envelopes stuffed with cash. Sometimes they would say he was guilty, off on a technicality, a botched Miranda, or nothing but circumstantial evidence. Sometimes they’d talk about witnesses that disappeared, the case ready to go to trial, suddenly the courthouse filled with ghosts—all charges dismissed. And sometimes their silence would fill the car, their dark blue uniforms a color I’d come to hate, nothing said but the place and time, the need for something they couldn’t do themselves, telling me to be careful, as they remembered what I used to be, the envelopes thick, telling me to take a shower, Jesus Christ, eyes watering as they tried to look away, tried to pretend I didn’t exist.

I felt the same way.

I’d sit in a dark tavern surrounded by other shadows, glassware around me filled with various liquids, amber poured down my throat, one bar as good as the next, the seats on either side of me filled with the shapes of dark acts come to life, filling the space so that no mortal flesh would get anywhere near me, the fumes coming off me like gasoline on a black stretch of tar, shimmering and pungent, not quite solid in my existence. When a hand finally did come to rest on my sleeve, I’d turn to see black beady eyes embedded in a shrinking skull, a red beard flowing off of pockmarked flesh, yellowing teeth uttering threats then demanding answers then asking for help before finally devolving into a long string of begging for something violent. The truth didn’t matter much anymore, so I’d take that job, too, sometimes only needing to take a few steps, a pool cue cracked over a head, a knife slid in between ribs while the leather-clad behemoth pissed into the urinal, baring his teeth as he slid to the floor. Sometimes it was a ride into the endless night, the lights of the skyline sparkling like a distant galaxy, deeper into the concrete jungle, or perhaps out into the communities that ring the city, thirty miles north to never-ending cornfields, just to run a blade across a throat, a hole dug in haste, a fire burning late into the night, clothes tossed in, standing naked among the sharp stalks, blood collecting in a pool at my feet.

And yet I still turned away from it all, smiling like a Cheshire cat, laughing at whatever demons lurked inside my melted brain, shadows at the periphery, a flock of birds shooting up into the sky, writhing snakes at my feet, and shattered mirrors whenever I paused to stare too long. Waiting to take my photos, as the windows filled with fog, spiral graphics emerged in the mist, wrapping around the interior of some car I’d stolen, a language I chose to ignore. The cackling radio spit out nonsense as the distracted officers tried to get the case right, hissing and popping noises coming from the interior of the cab, dispatch turning to distant tongues, biblical verse spinning out into the air, whoever utters the name of the Lord must be put to death. A cairn of stones was stacked at the end of a dirt road, lost in the suburbs, out past the farms, oak trees ringing the green fields, dusty paths between bulging harvests, and in the middle of the rocks a singular tree branch, forking in all directions, gnarled digits reaching into the sky.

For a man with no faith, it was easy not to believe.

The things we say when we are desperate—I imagine I said them all. Somewhere between the angst of my youth and the desolation of my last days on this planet, I had a life that mattered. I was in love, and she was able to see beyond the mask I wore, able to lay her hands on mine and calm the savage beast, bring me down off my high that prowling the city streets required. They shimmer like a ripple in the water, my memories of what once was, the boy in his quiet innocence, the ways we used to be a family. It was as plain as can be, a house in the suburbs, with all the essentials—hardwood floors, fireplace for surviving the harsh Chicago winters, bedrooms and baths, a back yard with trees and flowers, a two-car garage, a dog that licked my hand no matter how many times I struck it, a basement unfinished in gray concrete where I’d disappear to in order to shed my skin. We would sit down to dinners of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas, a glass of cold milk, and smiles all around the table, no questions about my day because she knew it had been anything but nice. The first thing she’d do when I got home was to drop whatever she was doing—making dinner, playing with the boy, feeding the dog, working on the computer—just to show me that I mattered, wrapping my weary head in her small, soft hands, kissing my face, hugging me, pressing up against me, to remind me why I worked so hard, her feminine lightness fluttering around me like a butterfly, bringing me down to Earth, pulling my head up out of the ground, as my arms went limp and I tried to shake it all off.

But the death came anyway.

I could lie and say that I’d become a different man, that the wife and son had changed me, made me better, erased my past actions and the violent acts I’d committed. The mannequin I’d become out here walked these streets with a profound selflessness, a sense of charity, and hope. And maybe I believed it all at first, that I could repent, that I could ask for forgiveness and find absolution. But deep down I knew it wasn’t true. So much had been buried—gunshots in the dead of night, open wounds spilling blood and life onto warehouse floors, back alleys swallowing naked flesh and hungry mouths—no, I knew nothing had been forgiven.

Or forgotten.

My memories of fatherhood were fleeting, and scattered, but true. It was like coming up out of an ice-cold lake, skin shimmering, numb yet awake, my heart pounding in my tight ribcage as if it might explode. I could see my son with such clarity, the way he’d wrinkle up his nose or hitch up his shorts as we ran around the back yard kicking a soccer ball, his eyes on me as if spying a dinosaur—something he thought had been extinct, wonder wrapped around disbelief. And then the darkness would come swooping back in, and I’d disappear, my base desires overriding the logic. It wasn’t that I didn’t see him. I did—but for some reason he felt eternal, the time I needed, I wanted, grains of sand in a never-ending hourglass.

When he first got sick, the boy, she took him to one doctor after another, his cough filling the upstairs of our house, his handkerchiefs dotted with yellow phlegm and splotches of red, his skin going translucent as we thought cold, then flu, then pneumonia. Then cancer. I saw how it drained her, how it sucked all of the life out of her, her hair no longer golden, merely straw. Her eyes dimmed to dull metal, the oceans I used to get lost in, shallow and dirty—polluted with worry and exhaustion. She wouldn’t even get up from the kitchen table when I came home, merely shifted the wine glass from one hand to the other, her lipstick rimming the glass in a pattern that wanted to be kisses but ended up turning into bites.

And