Zachary
“Oh, he’s always been like that,” I would tell them whenever my parents asked about Zachary. They wanted to know about the things we had done together, and why he never invited me to his house. Their primary concern was the things we had done; the reasons for my continually skinned knees and another mangled bicycle. I just explained he was the one who enjoyed doing all of those things. I was just tagging along for the ride.
My father usually laughed when I told him stories of my friend. My Mother had always seemed a little more concerned, but I never understood why. Father had a way of explaining away the concerns Mother had. Whenever I returned home with my scrapes and bruises that Zach and I had incurred on our adventures, Dad would shrug his shoulders and laugh,
“That’s the way boys are.”
Gradually, my father my father began to laugh less often; Mother grew
increasingly concerned. Nevertheless, I was still tagging along for the ride.
Zach would intrude at anytime during the time and propose some vaguely concocted plan, which usually changed as it was put into effect. He could say anything to snag my interest.
“We’re gonna have the most absolutely baddest bike race that ever was! Top of the New Street hill tonight, be there!” He reminded me of the commercials that always interrupted my cartoons.
I always followed his lead. Whatever ‘mountains’ he went sailing over, I would be attached to him like a shadow, even though, at that time, I had yet to learn the art of bicycle sportsmanship. This art, like many others,
Zachary had drained of all violent potential. While I was with Zach, I never
feared being injured because of my inferior abilities, for I knew he would
always be in more pain despite his talents. Zachary was always more battered
than any of the children by the time he crossed the finish line; and I, second to him. For Zach the pain never really mattered.
As early summer faded into fall, Zach began to tire of his usual need for glory and bruises. We now had plenty of reputation on New Street, and more bruises than either of us could count. But still he lacked contentment. He was convinced that there was more for him to do in this world of his, and he was determined to do it by the end of the summer. The closer he grew to this deadline the more depressed Zach became.
Zach had continued his boredom laced with anger for several weeks. Then one Saturday, before I had even begun my weekly ritual of watching cartoons, he barged into my bedroom, slamming the door behind him. The shock from the blow made a painting on my wall swing with a scraping noise toward the door. Zach stepped into the light that crept from over the hill, into my window, and now onto his face. The yellow light made him look sickly. Clown’s eyes from within the slanted painting stared at him blankly.
“Hurry up and come look at what toasters can do!” His orders sounded hollow as they fell on my half awake ears. I walked down the block in my pajamas to see Zach’s long awaited accomplishment. I acted as if I expected something wonderful, even though inside somewhere I had come to dread whatever it was. That was the fun I had with Zach, t, excitement right
alongside reflex repulsion. Both of which I knew to expect, and at times, love. Every on of Zachary’s accomplishments was never predictable and always a thrill. This one, however, was the first to actually scare me.
Zachary had said nothing during our trek which was
unusual for him, but I blamed it upon the earliness of the day. I had led the way that morning. He kept close behind me; we cast a joined double shadow in the morning light. As we came to the crest of the New Street hill, Zach pointed and spoke tremulously.
“Fire!” he motioned to the distinctive wisps that poured from the kitchen window. Not black but bleached gray by the rising sun. I couldn’t wait to see what he had done. Ignoring Zach’s reluctance I barged into the front door.
“I don’t wanna go,” my newfound shadow announced from behind the door.
“Why not?” I asked as we both continued toward the kitchen.
“Because there are Beasties in there.”
“What’s a Beastie?” I was trying to lead him into another of his ‘bullshit story concoctions’ as Father had called them once. I loved to
hear them; he hated telling them.
“Remember when you brought the walkie-talkies over, and the only thing he ever said into them was ‘phsss phsss’?” I recalled that event as being rather bothersome to Zach.
“Yep, so what?” I sat in the living room, the kitchen would have to wait. Zachary and myself were half swallowed by the couch as he continued the discussion.
“And remember how nobody we ever asked about the noise would tell that they made it?” I remembered it vividly. Zachary’s voice roughened from the combination of excitement and smoke inhalation.
“Well, it wasn’t anybody we know that did it. It was the Beasties! And they don’t just live inside of walkie-talkies either; they’re in lots of different places.”
I was getting nervous. The smoke was piling up across the dirty living
room window. It smelled bad and continued getting darker.
I stood. “Come on,” I whined “Let’s look at what you did in the kitchen and put it out before it stops being funny! And besides, I want some Cheerios.”
Zachary told me to ’sit down’ with his eyes. I was coughing as I sat.
“You can’t catch a Beastie,” Zach began to preach.” There are too many places for them to hide at the same time for you to catch them. There’s Beasties in the toaster right now. I can smell ‘em” The smoke in the room thickened and seemed to pour from his eyes. That’s when I noticed the blaze.
The wall separating us from the kitchen was blistered from the heat. A charcoal haze emitted from the crack beneath the kitchen door. The door itself was charred and smoldering, as if it had been burning for quite some time. All
these things were brought to my attention by the increased amount of morning light that leaked through the smog onto the wall at the far end of the living room. Still Zach sat on the couch and took no notice of the burning kitchen. He simply gazed at me, expecting to continue the conversation. The boy had no fear. He had always been like that.
My eyes began to water and I was coughing profusely as I stood again. I looked to Zachary, who obviously had no intentions of leaving his new masterpiece behind. I swiveled and turned for the front door; beyond that door was open air and safety. But I couldn’t quite see my destination. I turned to face Zach. He looked at me, in my agitated state, with a look of confusion.
“Why are you in such a hurry to leave?” As my eyes continued watering, he seemed to flicker and disappear behind the smoke, then, every few seconds I would blink and he would reappear looking just as complacent as before, only to disappear again. I said nothing to him in response because it was obvious to me why I needed to escape; my only concern was being able to do so. I heard a violent roar erupt from somewhere as the flames engulfed something else behind the blistered wall. I began frantically clawing at the grayish void in front of me, trying to find the door to freedom, breakfast and cartoons. The void seemed infinite, only occasionally being interrupted by the intrusion of a familiar shape; I bumped into a love seat, near the window, three times. I decided on the third time that I could climb out the window. I screamed as I realized this, half out of fear of falling that short distance and half out of the shock incurred by the sudden interjection of a rational thought. My cries were muffled by the roaring. The window slid open with a wail after I shoved it open violently. I let out another cry as I plummeted six feet into the bushes.
It was peaceful outside.
Behind me the house was still burning. The sulfurous sting pushed me along as I ran down the hill toward my house. There were still people inside the house! I stopped dead in my tracks. Halfway to my destination I turned to the house again. I looked to the bushes.
“Get out!! Get out!! Run!!!” Confusion wrestled with my mind as I
turned to run, stopped turned to see the fire once more and ran for breakfast.
I slid my fingers across my short dark brown hair while I ran in an effort to
make myself appear calm. It was the least I could do.
My parents were eating as I stormed into the house. They stood out of
shock. Mother looked very concerned, Father noticed that I reeked of smoke. I pointed out the way I had come before collapsing to the floor…
###
My father looked over at me, noticed I was awake and handed me a bowl of Cheerios. My mother was adjusting the picture of the clown. She was also crying.
Father gave me a spoon.
“What did you see over there?” I could hear sirens from somewhere. Mother looked over at me, wiping tears from her eyes.
“How do you feel?”
“Scared and hungry,” I said with the spoon in my mouth.
“Did you see how the fire started?” Father was also concerned.
“I didn’t burn down Zachary’s house. Honest! The Beasties did it. They
live inside of toasters and stuff. Zach didn’t do it either!” With this, Mother began to cry even louder. She turned to look at me.
“Honey… Zachary isn’t real.”