The Arsonist

A young girl and her father begin to hear news stories about a strange woman named Agatha who burns down local businesses.

I had never heard it before, but her name captured my attention.  Agatha.  Such a soft name.  That’s why when my dad told me that she had burned down the local post office two nights ago, it struck me as ill-fitting.  But that’s just like me: reading too far into names. 

            “Looks like we won’t be getting any bills in the mail this month!” chuckled my dad.  He always joked about the articles in the morning newspaper, not to me in particular, but just as a way to laugh away all the s**t he was reading.  I could have commented that we never really paid the bills anyway, but he wouldn’t have heard clearly I would have had to explain, and it would have interrupted the rest of the article on Agatha. 

            “Looks like this lady did it in the dead of night! Probably just scared of the dark, as ladies are.  You know how that feels, don’t ya, Bailey?”  I was surprised that my dad had mentioned my name while in the middle of his morning newspaper, so I just quickly muttered, “Hm? Oh, ya.”  My dad nodded briskly with a distracted but amused look on his face and went back to reading. 

            I did know about being afraid of the dark.  I can’t remember how, but when I was four I accidently locked myself in the car trunk.  We had had a Volvo back then, so the trunk was small and cramped.  It had felt like hours before anyone had found me, terrified and crying, the bottom of my feet bruised from having kicked at the trunk lid for so long.  My dad swore it could have only been about thirty minutes, but it certainly didn’t feel like just thirty minutes.  I wish Dad hadn’t mentioned it. 

            “So… does the article say why she actually did it?”  I asked a few minutes later in between bites of my off-brand Cheerios. 

            “Huh?  Who’s “she”?  Oh, the arsonist?  Not really, just speculation.  Haven’t caught her yet, and apparently she’s not from around here so there’s really not much info on the lady!”

            My dad called every female “lady”.  He used the term so much that I didn’t associate it with respect anymore, just something with a specific set of private parts.  I’m pretty sure that’s what Dad meant by it anyway. 

            “Looks like basketball lost this weekend.  Damn. I had a whole three dollars riding on those boys.  Looks like we’ll have to cut back this week!”  He chuckled again.  I sighed, probably a bit too depressingly because he actually looked at me and stopped smiling his half bemused smile that he always had on his face. 

            “It’s just three dollars, Bailey. That was a joke.” 

            “Oh, ya, I know.  I guess I’m just tired.”

            “Tired? But you’re too young to be tired!” he laughed again, and settled back into the newspaper with his half smile.

 

 

            When I walked in after school that day, Dad was sitting on our couch watching the afternoon news.  Our couch was old and lumpy and a very particular shade of red that reminded me of the faded propaganda posters Mrs. Tsergenev showed us in history class from her days growing up in the USSR. 

            I slammed the door behind me, attempting to get Dad’s attention, but he just kept staring at the television.  I let my backpack slide to the floor, which I noticed needed to be vacuumed.  Our apartment was filthy.  I was simultaneously disgusted and apathetic about it, which was how I think Dad felt too. 

            I dug through my backpack for the extra food I had bagged from lunch, walked over to the couch, and jumped up, sinking into the red cushions.  Dad had taught me to always go for seconds at lunch and put the extra in a bag.  That way I got a snack when I got home. 

            I had just ripped open the top of the Ziploc baggy to eat some tater totes, but the news suddenly caught my attention.  Another fire.  

            “Johnson and Johnson’s Furniture Outlet burned down last night after the second arson attack this week.  The police department believes that the culprit is a woman named Agatha Omphalos.  Ms. Omphalos is around six feet tall, with blonde hair, and worked at the Dairy Queen on Fifth Street until being fired two weeks ago for spitting on a customer.  If you know anything about her whereabouts, please call….”

            The news anchor, Jack Pottly, droned on.  Six feet tall!  How could she be so good at hiding?  Living on the lamb.  How exciting!  But why was she burning down these places?  Surely someone couldn’t have a personal vendetta against a post office and a furniture outlet.  Especially Johnson and Johnson’s.  I knew Johnson Junior.  He was a polite and quiet kid in the year ahead of me.  Apparently he had the highest GPA in fifth grade, which wasn’t particularly impressive at our school but was still something to be known for.  Jack Pottly’s voice interrupted my train of thought.

            “Local real estate values continue to drop as the national crisis…”

            I stopped listening.  Dad used to work in real estate till the country “hit the shitter” in ’08.  Not that he was ever any good, but now he just took odd jobs at his brother’s welding business.  Some days I was so proud that he was my dad, working hard and sweating to care for the two of us.  Other days though, I looked at him like I looked at our apartment, and I was ashamed. 

            Dad had fallen asleep on the couch next to me, his light snoring merging with the monotonous droning of Jack Pottly in the background.  I bit into my tater tot.

            I guess Dad was old enough to feel tired. 

 

 

            Twenty-four hours later, we were back in the same position.  I didn’t have a tater totes though.  I had forgotten a Ziploc, and my stomach was punishing me for it. 

            Dad was awake this time and more animated than yesterday.  He had gotten to work at Uncle Gordon’s shop that day so oil and other brown-black things that smelled bad were smeared across his white undershirt and jeans.  Dad always wore a white undershirt and jeans, even to important things.  He probably wore it to Mom’s funeral, but I don’t remember. I was two and probably more interested in mud than a funeral. 

            “Looks like another fire! Well oh s**t! I think I’m falling in love with this Agatha lady.”

             Dad always joked about falling for “bad ladies”, like Mrs. Hollen who had molested one of her students in the second grade.  Dad just said she needed a real man to show her the ropes, and she’d never have to settle for a kid again.  I guess he was assuming he was that “real man”.    I was glad though that Mrs. Hollen had left; she was always telling me to smile. 

            I was holding onto one of the couch cushions, the one with the mustard stain from when I was little.  I held onto it pretty tight, trying to get it as close to my stomach as possible.  I look over the top of it to watch Jack Pottly narrate another segment on Agatha. 

            “Agatha Omphalos attempted to burn down All Sorts Storage Units today.  Firefighters were able to put out the flames before major damage was done to the facilities, and cameras captured Ms. Omphalos fleeing from the scene after the fire broke out.  Police are still looking for Ms. Omphalos and ask that if anyone knows about her whereabouts that they contact….”

            The screen played the footage of a six-foot blonde woman running, cautiously, around corners of the storage units.  The light from the fire that she had set burned behind her and made her hair look white.  They cut off the grainy footage as Agatha disappeared out of the corner of the camera’s reach. 

            “Dad?” I said quietly. 

            “Huh?  What? Speak up girl! Jack’s drowning you out!”  Dad chuckled to himself with his half smile. 

            “Did you ever see this Agatha lady at the Dairy Queen when you went?”

            “Can’t say I ever did!  And I’d have remembered her too.  Six-foot blonde? And she looks like she’s smoking hot!”  Dad laughed at his joke.  I smiled too, though I wouldn’t have if one of the older boys at school had said the same thing. 

            “Where do you think she could be hiding?  I mean, the town is really small.  How can nobody have seen her by now with all the cops looking?”

            “Small town or not, the cops here are idiots.  I hope she goes for the police station next.”  Dad did not like the police, not for any particular reason, but as a matter of principle. 

            “I like her name.”

            “Do ya?  Sounds like a northerner to me.  Probably came down South, realized she hated it, and decided to rid the world of the whole goddamn place.  Don’t say ‘goddamn’ when you’re at school, ok?”

            “Ok, Dad.”  I yawned.  Dad looked at me.  He yawned too, and we both settled back into the couch to watch Jack Pottley introduce the weather segment. 

 

 

            She didn’t go for the police station.  She’d gone for an old apartment complex next. She burned down the one that had a filthy apartment with a red couch in it.  A filthy apartment with a red, lumpy couch with a filthy Dad and his hungry daughter sleeping on it.  At least we made the news. 

 

            

Author's Note

I whipped this up in between classes; I know it will be rough. Be as critical as you would like. It's a work in progress, so say anything that you think will help.