Ablaze

The scent of lamb-and-apricot stew advertised Sarkisian Senior’s cooking to the entire block. Harris inhaled the sweet-and-sour air, and a smile spread over his lips. A happy man must know how to cook, Dad repeated time and again when he was growing up, and how to pick a woman who enjoys small pleasures in life. A good woman, a good meal with a good wine was a simple recipe for happiness, and two out of these three ingredients should be on hand tonight.

The old door creaked when Harris let himself in. “Dad, I’m home!”

Sarkisian Senior dialed down the volume on the TV and wheeled his chair around the kitchen counter. “Good evening, good evening. Go wash your hands before supper.”

“Sorry, Dad, I shouldn’t have munched at the station, but the paperwork was a murder.” Harris genuinely regretted it now. There was food, and then there was this stew’s aroma hanging in the house. “If I knew you were cooking up a storm, I’d survived on protein bars.”

Dad’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Pah, it’ll taste better tomorrow.”

So, today was probably a good day. Feeling more relaxed, he stepped from the tiny entrance area into their combined kitchen-living-room space and looked around. “How’s the new butcher’s block working out for you, Dad?”

Adding a pull-out butcher-block cutting board to a kitchen cabinet was the latest project of his. Any house over a hundred years old had plenty of character and salvageable wood, but wheelchair accessible, they were not. It was worth the effort, however, since no money in the world could buy another garden with a maple tree Dad planted on the day he was born.

“Block’s good, but the slow cooker not so much.”

“The slow cooker? What slow— Oh. The one that the lady from down the street brought over, right?” Curly hair in a messy ponytail, voice of a chain-smoker, something, something lady. He squinted to see her clearer in his mind’s eye. “The same one who wants the lily bulbs when I dig up the bed on the side for the new ramp, right?”

“Her name is Lora, and, please, don’t tell her the slow cooker isn’t good, I beg you.” Dad winked to invite Harris into his little neighborly conspiracy.

Harris rolled his shoulders unhurriedly, to allow the warmth and umami smell to do its magic and release the knots in his back. He was home, life didn’t suck, and the girl from the burning hotel arrived safely to the Central Hospital. That information cost him another volley of anti-motivational quotes from Lance, but it was worth it.

“No worries, I won’t sell you out to Lora,” Harris said. “Glad you gave a shot to the slow cooker.”

“I tried, Harris, I tried! But the flavors came out all wrong.”

The moment a gas stove Dad could operate was in his price range, he’d get it. An electrical one just didn’t go with Sarkisian Senior’s heritage copperware.

“Well, despite the slow cooker fiasco, I hope you had time to consider your next move, Grandmaster.” Harris pointed to the coffee table by the window where the chessboard waited for them. If this was truly a good day for Dad, the match would tell him that better than any shrink. It was also free.

“Did I consider it? My boy, I have a plan to destroy you in five moves tops. Come here.” Dad wheeled over to the chessboard and rubbed his hands. “The trumpets are blaring; the banners are flying; and the queens and the knights are eager to pounce.”

Harris lowered himself into an armchair opposite Sarkisian Senior to consider the figures on the board and the ones lined next to it. While Harris was out fighting fires, Dad’s rooks and a knight cornered his queen on the board. And when the queens were in deep doodoo, the kings were soon to follow. Hmm.

Dad took a sip from a wineglass that also awaited on the table, trying to hide a genuine sparkle in his eyes. The wine was white; hence Dad didn’t plan to eat supper with him, or he would have opened a bottle of red to go with lamb.

Harris reached for his bishop, frowning. Should he ask, or would it trigger an episode and spoil the evening? “Five moves, huh?” Surely, he could draw out the inevitable for longer than that.

“Ah…I saw you on the news today,” Dad said.

This was a blatant distraction tactic, and Harris saw it coming, but he blurted out, “Did they mention me by name?” anyway.

Thing was, if they did, the girl could reach out to him. Not a great idea, since it usually resulted in an awkward meeting with both sides grinning, mumbling platitudes, and sighing in relief afterward. But she could, if she wanted to, and maybe he could use a bit of trivial banter in his life.

“Yes, yes. Full name, and the Station number,” Dad said, nursing his wine. “The whole enchilada! Proud of you, Son.”

Harris’ fingers hovered over the wooden figurine, without touching it. Heart hammered in his chest, reliving all of it in a space of a minute. The fire, the girl, and her angels. Was any of it even real? “So, how’s the wine?”

“A step above vinegar.” Sarkisian Senior accepted the change in topic with a gracious tilt of his head. “I should have gone with beer. That’s what Milwaukee is famous for after all.”

“You and beer? I just don’t see it.”

“Beer isn’t that bad.”

Sarkisian Senior sounded guarded, which was even more strange than reversing his opinion on beer at fifty. What was going on here?

Harris uncorked the bottle and splashed some wine into the waiting second glass. He rolled it and smelled it: spring grass and something else. Something that required a sip to find out for sure. “Tangy and young, but not as bad as you’ve made it sound. Certainly not the cat pee. Grass and maybe kiwi? Very green.”

Dad pressed his lips together, steepled his fingers, nodded his mostly gray head, obviously thinking how his son could have easily followed in his footsteps. But no rebuke came.

“Speaking of being young and green, Harris.” Dad’s hazelnut eyes, the same as Harris’ own, twinkled. “I should make a GIF out of the news clip for your Tinder profile. A heroic firefighter! You’ll be swarmed.”

Some people’s parents were boomers, hopeless around technology. Would that Harris be so lucky!

Sarkisian Senior moved into YouTube realm from the get-go, transforming from a sommelier into a restaurant blogger, then getting his own podcast, even a show on cable TV. For a while, things looked so promising! If not for the accident, Dad could be filming some fabulous hole-in-the-wall in Alaska even now. But Jung pulled Mom out of the car first, so Dad became a paraplegic trapped in a house, filling his days the best he could. If only he did more cooking and less matchmaking!

“Dad, please. It’s not funny anymore.” Harris took a deep breath. “Borderline creepy, even.”

The twinkle in the hazelnut irises dulled. Dad straightened in his wheelchair. “I’ll stop once you settle down. Or at least call your mother. It’s been two years, Harris.”

“I know how long it has been.”

Dad didn’t even blink to acknowledge his tart reply. “Two. Years.” In case annunciating the words wasn’t dramatic enough, he lifted two fingers.

“I can count this high, Dad.”

Harris’ chest heaved. It took every ounce of his self-restraint not to sweep the black-and-white figurines to the floor. He fixed his gaze on Dad’s slippered feet idling at the footrest of the wheelchair. The sight of shriveled, purplish ankles was better than catching the shadow of longing in his dad’s eyes. His misery was born of more than becoming a paraplegic deprived of the job he loved, a wanderer who could no longer be on the road. This would be enough to dampen anyone’s spirit, but he still carried the torch for the abominable woman who ruined his life. Mom wasn’t worth this devotion, but it wasn’t an argument Harris could win move by move, like a game of chess. In a game of hearts there were no rules, just secrets and backstabbing.

Harris dug deep for a lighter tone of voice, despite wanting to scream. “Are you so desperate to make me talk to women that even my mom will do? I’m a grown-ass man.”

The glass shook in his dad’s hand, pale-gold liquid sloshing from side to side. “You’re deflecting instead of accepting the truth once and for all. It wasn’t your mother’s fault. I drove that day, so it’s all on me.”

“She was sleeping with— Sleeping around!” Maybe if he didn’t work with Jung, it would be easier to accept the injustices of fate. Jung couldn’t have known when the car would plunge down from the bridge, taking the trapped driver with it, but every day at the station Harris pictured the alternative universe where Jung rescued the driver first. And if he transferred, he’d let them take his station away from him too. Then she’d win.

“How can you defend her, Dad? She didn’t even stay long enough to find out if you were out of danger. She rebooked her flight and left like it was a minor traffic accident.”

Dad waved his phone at Harris. “If you two never talk, how would you ever understand?”

Not true. He talked to her. In a hospital’s waiting room with scrubbed linoleum, indifferent light illuminating blank walls, and a lingering smell of antibacterial cleaners, he tried. He had asked her, “Can you stay?”

And she bent down to kiss his cheek. “I’m sorry, but I have to go, honey. People depend on me.”

He was so numb, he didn’t even laugh in her face, only stared at her with wide, round eyes. “What about Dad? What if he—”

“He will pull through,” she replied, then her voice pitched up. “He always does. I’ll call you from New York as soon as I can.”

With that, Mom sauntered out of their lives to ensure the nation had improved access to the articles on throw pillows and ranked perennial choices for curb appeal. Harris had no idea if she made good on her promise and called him, because as soon as he got over his shock, he blocked her number.

The memory cut off the flow of air to Harris’ lungs. “How, how could a decent human being leave after what you’d sacrificed, so there wouldn’t be a scratch, a single scratch on her!” The world went black as his yell echoed in his ears, followed by the same sound as the shattered window had made on that balcony with that girl.

The girl who called for her mom. Her mom wasn’t there for her either, only Harris.

He gulped for air, and the darkness engulfing him receded, admitting the reality back. Oh, shit. Apparently, the sound of the broken glass was his wineglass. He flung it into the sink, and it broke against the stainless steel into a million shards.

Without as much as a disappointed shake of his head, Sarkisian Senior wheeled himself to the disaster in the kitchenette. He gathered the transparent, jagged pieces into a towel, while Harris choked on his regrets.

“Here, let me—” He closed the distance in three steps—an elementary thing to do when one has functional legs. “Let me help.”

But Dad had done a stellar job already.

“I’m glad she didn’t stay, you know.” Dad’s throat, covered with graying stubble, bobbed up and down. “What kind of man wants duty, pity, and sacrifice from a woman? It’s not me, and not you. Not back then. Not now. Never, Harris, never!”

“You have no idea what I want, do you?” Harris whispered.

A shrug lifted Sarkisian Senior’s shoulders under a thread-bare t-shirt. “How can I? You won’t tell me. But it’s okay. Find the joy you need, Son. Happiness.”

“I’ll be happy when—” When? He stammered.

“Aha.” A tiny nod underscored the saintly look Sarkisian Senior developed lately, with his tan skin stretched over his skull, curls retreating further and further from his forehead, soulful eyes and ever-deepening laugh-lines. “Aha. Call your mother. Not for me, Harris. For yourself.”

“I don’t need to.” Harris stared at the backsplash, then poked peeling insulation along its edge with his fingernail. If he didn’t reseal it, the mold would start growing. Maybe after the next shift? Tomorrow? Now? “I’m happy with the way things are, Dad.”

Sarkisian Senior put his hands up. “I don’t disagree, but let me play devil’s advocate for a second here. Would a happy man waste wine—not the best wine, mind you—but, anyway, would a happy man fling glassware at the mere suggestion of calling his mother?”

Harris squinted at the TV in the kitchen’s corner. Had Dad added shrink DIY talk-shows to his binge-list of true crime shows? God. What a mess!

He yearned for a pool of calm he experienced with the girl on the balcony when things looked desperate. He’d dip into it and smooth words would spill from his mouth like they did with the girl, and she’d rave about angels. Hopefully angels, since he had enough talk about mothers for one night. If only there was a way to move this conversation to a fresh track without upsetting Dad…oh, wait!

Harris stretched like a man without a care in the world, and grinned so wide, his cheeks ached. “You know what? I surrender on all fronts.” He pointed at the chessboard. “I want a re-match for this. And you can line up as many deserving bachelorettes for me to check out tomorrow morning as you wish.”

“Hmm.” Of course, Dad squinted at him suspiciously. He capitulated too easily, when this was just like chess, feints and masterstrokes.

Fortunately, Harris had just the thing up his sleeve. “A fair warning though. I’ve met a girl at work, and there’s just no beating that,” he said.

Dad’s second hmm sounded different from the first. The challenge intrigued him. “I’ve been hitting thirty percent home runs with the last dozen. I think I know your taste by now.”

“Twenty-five at most!”

Dad’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Twenty-five! Bah.”

Smile that Harris feigned turned to genuine, lightening his heart. Really, where was the harm in playing a little game? Let Dad have his fun with matchmaking, while all Harris had to do was swipe left and scrunch his nose like a toddler. It was better than pointless dating.

“What does she look like?” Dad asked.

“Huh?”

“Your lady from work. What does she look like? If she exists, that is.” Dad squinted like a detective about to break the case.

Oh, shit. The passed-out girl’s likeness flickered in Harris’ memory. The tension in his low back released so much when he pictured her that he expelled a contented sigh.

“A fiery redhead.” He air-kissed his fingers.

Dad’s face fell a little. Obviously, Sarkisian Senior had hoped for a nice Armenian girl, or just a nice girl who could appreciate good food and good wine, since Milwaukee was too small to bump into other Armenians often.

But what could Harris do? For the lies to come naturally, they had to contain half-truths. The nice foodies didn’t pass out in hotel rooms wearing black lingerie. They didn’t call for fire angels to come to their rescue. Plus, if Harris made his imaginary crush sound perfect, the game would be unwinnable, and therefore not nearly as interesting.

Maybe she was part a lady, part a nun, and part a whore? His eyes hooded over, and a smile just wouldn’t leave his lips. “Picture a fallen woman with a pure heart. Very Satine from Moulin Rouge.”

Dad wiggled his brows. Perhaps he was considering whether he wanted his son to rush abroad and have a doomed love affair.

“She’s not a natural redhead, but it suits her,” Harris decided, rummaging through the cupboards to get another long-stem glass. There had to be one hiding behind the fat-bellied whiskey cups. “Aha!”

As Harris seized his vessel and poured wine, he realized he wasn’t inventing things. Her skin was pale, like this wine, not semi-translucent pink dotted by freckles of the natural redheads. It was an opaque pallor of a brunette. Yes, there were raven-black tresses underneath the streaks of red. He just didn’t pay attention to it while they were in danger.

“She has beautiful eyes.” No amount of focusing would tell him their color, since she never opened her eyes, but beautiful was right. He could tell it by her long, curved eyelashes.

“And the name of this mysterious goddess is…?” Dad replied nonchalantly, but there was no fooling Harris. Sarkisian Senior took the bait, hook, line and sinker. He’d spend hours on Tinder searching for a worthy rival.

“Wouldn’t you want to know?” Harris headed upstairs, with the half-full wineglass in his hand. “See you in the morning, okay?”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

A pang of nostalgia tugged on Harris’ gut. If only he could experience the same joy from hearing this as he did in his childhood and run to his bedroom whooping, bare heels pounding on the carpet. Back then, all he had to do was to hide under the blanket and wait for the bright dreams to come. If only!

Feeling older than his twenty-four, he threw back the rest of the wine in one gulp. Dad was right: it wasn’t really the best vintage, but who cared? He left the glass on the nightstand, crawled into bed, folded his arms under his head and stared at the ceiling. Shadows danced across it from a car that passed on the street, becoming a winged figure.

Fire angels? What’s the word for fire angels? The seraphim? Are there seraphim in town? Is one of them an arsonist? Jesus H. Christ!

Harris got out of bed and shut the blinds, then pulled curtains tightly. Dark-red curtains. Not the same shade as the girl’s hair, but now he had to remember the exact shade of her hair. Dammit!

Gritting his teeth, he straightened the bed and settled on the blanket into the savasana pose. This time he shut his eyes. Darkness. Arms falling gently to his sides. Full relaxation.

He wouldn’t think about the girl. He wouldn’t dream about her hair spilling over his arm. Her voice would stop echoing through his head, so tiny yet somehow powerful enough to calm his anxiety.

Don’t you dream of her, idiot, it’s just a ruse for Dad. You basically made her up.

But he did.