Page 108 of Loud Unspoken Memories

On the way out of town, we pass Donovan’s Pub. All the memories of the party come rushing back. The people here, they’re all so nice.

I’ve always thought living in a small town would be boring. Now it’s something I crave.

I turn one last time as we head out onto the road that leads back to I-95, and I say a silent goodbye to what must certainly be the best place anyone could ever live.

Chapter Forty-two

Dallas

A heavy plume of smoke wafts into the sky as my truck makes the winding drive back to my cabin. Where’s it coming from? I haven’t stayed here since the day I drove Marti to see her family. I’ve been back, sure, but I slept at the motor lodge in town, making daily runs to stoke the fire so the thousands of dollars of wine inside wouldn’t freeze and turn to vinegar.

Staying there… sleeping there… wouldn’t be the same. Not after everything that happened. Not after every inch of the cabin reminds me of her—Marti, not Phoebe. Even the damn hobby room where we had our first real argument.

The plan was to load the truck and leave yesterday, but the local police wanted to talk to me about Abe. It was just one more excuse to put off the inevitable: me packing up and moving back to Calloway Creek.

Part of me knows it’s just another way of running. Only this time, it’s Marti’s memory I’m running from, not Phoebe’s. Oh, the irony.

Getting closer now, something just isn’t right. The smoke is dark and thick and much denser than what my one small fireplace should produce. When I make the final turn and drive over the small hill that brings my cabin into view, I slam on the brakes. Because what’s in front of me isn’t my cabin. It’s a smoldering mess of what used to be my cabin.

It’s… gone.

It’s just fucking gone. Burned to the damn ground.

I get out of the truck, approaching slowly. Heat still emanates, warming my face the closer I get. The ground is allrock and dirt for at least thirty feet in all directions, the snow having melted from the heat of the fire.

Water is visible in the pond out back, the ice now gone on the side closest to what was my home. And I can see the pond because there’s nothing standing between me and the rear of the property. Nothing but the godforsaken wrought-iron stove—the sole remaining relic and the likely culprit.

I sink to the ground.Did I do this?

When I kicked the stove the other day, did I somehow breach its integrity?

I contemplate calling the fire department, but what would be the point? The fire is out. There aren’t any flames. Just embers, smoke, and ash.

Still stunned, and with nothing else to do, I sit on the chopping stump and watch the smoke do its dance as it floats up and away from the burned remains.

Staring at the corner of the lot where the hobby room once stood, my heart sinks. All of her creations, all of their things, are gone. I look over to where the wall of wine and books should be. There’s nothing. Just… nothing.

Disappointment courses through me when I glance over near the woods and don’t see Snowman Abe. He, too, was a casualty.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because now, I don’t have a choice. Ihaveto leave. Until this very moment, there was a question that lingered in the back of my mind of will I or won’t I. Now the decision has been made for me. The only difference is that I can’t take anything with me. I can’t take the only things that really mattered.

Hours later, after most of the smoke has cleared, I finally feel it’s safe enough to approach. I stay on the ground around the perimeter, not risking melting my shoes or falling on hidden embers. Not one of my over a hundred wine bottles arediscernable. They must have all exploded, then melted, leaving reformed clumps of indistinguishable glass.

The charred remains of my kitchen appliances sit among the rubble, only recognizable because I know what and where they were. Some cookware and a few kitchen utensils are still clearly visible, though covered with soot, as I sift through the ash with a long stick.

The fireplace really is the only survivor, its intact iron chimney looking odd as it stands tall in the same way it had before, snaking up and through the rafters and roof that no longer exist.

Around the far corner of the lot, something catches my eye. I stride over, using the stick to move away the rubble, and find a ceramic sculpture. It’s a vase. Phoebe’s one and only attempt at ceramics. It’s sooty and gray. I touch it lightly to make sure it’s not too hot, then take it to the pond and dunk it below the surface, wiping all its edges. It emerges virtually unscathed, and I turn it over to see her initials still branded onto the bottom.

An engine behind me steals my attention and I turn to see the propane truck pulling up. The driver’s eyes go wide when he sees the state of things. The young guy gets out, looking between me and what’s left of the cabin. “So, I’m guessing you don’t need the refill?”

I don’t think it was meant as a joke, but I can’t help laughing at the irony of it. Ofallof it.

“Dude, are you okay?” the driver asks at my unusual behavior.

“I’m fine,” I say, sitting back on my stump. “And no, I won’t be needing propane. Ever.”

“I’ll let the company know.” He hesitates, probably not knowing what to say. “I’m sorry.”

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