The Heron Stayed

As Chap turned into the lane, the sun slid behind a cloud, stealing the pleasant memory of the botany summer and intensifying his gloomy thoughts about his flawed paper. The big white house appeared gray and forlorn. The upstairs shades were pulled down in the empty bedrooms, turning the windows into unseeing white eyes. The swing at the end of the porch that extended across the front of the house barely moved in the late afternoon breeze, and the red geraniums in flower pots flanking the three steps were withered and pale. The place was too empty and too silent with Lori gonenot that their father had ever been a talkative man. In the past months, even before Lori left, he had spoken little. But that hadn’t seemed to matter much when she was home because she was Chap’s oppositecomfortable with words and quick to laugh. There were no long, empty silences when Lori was there. Reaching the back of the house, Chap shifted his backpack, straightened his shoulders, and took a deep breath, feeling as if he were tackling a challenging stretch of mountain trail instead of four worn wooden steps to the back porch. Opening the door into the large kitchen, he yelled, “I’m home,” even though he’d long since quit expecting to hear a response. Chap didn’t smell the smoke until he dropped his backpack and the mail onto the round oak table. It wasn’t the faint smell of his father’s pipe that lingered in the rooms after he’d left them. It was real smoke. Quickly, Chap patted the dirty pans on the stove and checked the trash basket. Nothing. He returned to the back porch and sniffed, but the outside air was fresh. He dashed back into the kitchen—stomach churning, heart pounding. The smell was inside the house. Moving quickly, he touched all the pans again, the microwave and the toaster oven, too, and stuck his arm into the oven. All were cool. Crossing the kitchen, he sniffed everywhere. The odor was strong in the dining room and stronger yet in the living room. His eyes were smarting. As he rushed across the front hallway to the closed door of the den, his eyes began to tear, yet he hesitated before knocking, ever fearful of disturbing his father as he worked. Heart pounding, Chap knocked once, more loudly the second time. “Sir, I smell smoke!” No answer. He turned the knob and pushed open the door. His father was sitting in the chair behind his desk, staring at the smoke rolling from the wastebasket. “Fire!” Chap yelled. His father looked at him with his right eyebrow raised and a puzzled expression on his pale face. “Some . . . someone,” he said. Before Chap could move, a tongue of flame shot up dangerously close to some newspaper pages hanging over the edge of the desk. Chap dashed into the room and grabbed the metal wastebasket. “Damn!” he yelled, dropping it and shaking both hands. His father didn’t move. Chap snatched up thick newspaper sections lying on a chair nearby and gingerly picked up the basket again. The orange-yellow flames were eating the crumpled paper inside. Backing quickly out of the den, he raced to the front door, set the basket down, and fumbled with the lock. Then he dashed down the front steps. Eyes burning, he flung the basket onto the grass and kicked it over. As the flames died down, Chap saw, among the glowing bits of paper and ashes, his father’s blackened pipe. Anger flooded every part of Chap’s body, replacing the fear. Fists clenched and jaws tight, he backed away from the smoking ashes, turned, and raced down the lane then south along First Woods Road, not jogging but running full out. His feet smacking the asphalt drowned out the pounding of his heart. Soon he had to slow down to a walk. His cheeks burned, his lungs ached. He gasped for breath as if still surrounded by the smoke. Reaching the bridge, Chap scrambled down to the grassy bank of Wandering River. Dropping to his knees, he pounded the ground with his first. “You stupid son of a bitch!” he screamed. “You could’ve burned down the house. Stop with the games!” He dropped flat onto his stomach—his arms and legs spread-eagled, his face buried in the grass—and sobbed.