see it clearly, more clearly than if it were a memory. The cars are
stacked and waiting, their fuel tanks ruptured and drained. Dad waves
at a tower of cars and says, “Luke, cut off those tanks, yeah?” And Luke
says, “Sure thing, Dad.” He lays the torch against his hip and strikes
flint. Flames erupt from nowhere and take him. He screams, fumbles
with the twine, screams again, and takes off through the weeds.
Dad chases him, orders him to stand still. It’s probably the first time
in his whole life that Luke doesn’t do something when Dad is telling
him to. Luke is fast but Dad is smart. He takes a shortcut through a
pyramid of cars and tackles Luke, slamming him to the ground.
I can’t picture what happens next, because nobody ever told me how
Dad put out the fire on Luke’s leg. Then a memory surfaces—of Dad,
that night in the kitchen, wincing as Mother slathers salve on his
hands, which are red and blistering—and I know what he must have
done.
Luke is no longer on fire.
I try to imagine the moment of decision. Dad looks at the weeds,
which are burning fast, thirsty for flame in that quivering heat. He
looks at his son. He thinks if he can choke the flames while they’re
young, he can prevent a wildfire, maybe save the house.
Luke seems lucid. His brain hasn’t processed what’s happened; the
pain hasn’t set in. The Lord will provide, I imagine Dad thinking. God
left him conscious.
I imagine Dad praying aloud, his eyes drawn heavenward, as he
carries his son to the truck and sets him in the driver’s seat. Dad shifts
the engine into first, the truck starts its roll. It’s going at a good speed
now, Luke is gripping the wheel. Dad jumps from the moving truck,
hits the ground hard and rolls, then runs back toward the brushfire,
which has spread wider and grown taller. The Lord will provide, he
chants, then he takes off his shirt and begins to beat back the flames.*
- Since the writing of this story, I have spoken to Luke about the incident. His account differs
from both mine and Richard’s. In Luke’s memory, Dad took Luke to the house, administered
a homeopathic for shock, then put him in a tub of cold water, where he left him to go fight
the fire. This goes against my memory, and against Richard’s. Still, perhaps our memories
are in error. Perhaps I found Luke in a tub, alone, rather than on the grass. What everyone
agrees upon, strangely, is that somehow Luke ended up on the front lawn, his leg in a
garbage can.