Even in a small town where no one has anything better to do than to gossip about their neighbors, there are some things so strange and terrible that no one will speak of them. It's as if people think ignoring an event could erase it from history. They're lying to themselves if they really believe that. You can pretend something never happened, but the fallout sinks into your bones and never goes away. Some things are just that bad. What happened to Sadie that night in the late summer of 1993 was one of those things.
No one will speak of that terrible time. I've been slapped in the mouth more than once for trying. The second time drew blood. I know the reason for the silence. I know perhaps more than anyone what exactly transpired, and I mean to tell it all here and now. I'm going to explain why, under the cover of darkness, someone set fire to Sadie's house with her entire family trapped inside. I'm going to explain why they did the right thing.
As far as any of us could tell, the horror began labor day of 1993. Our entire cul-de-sac threw an enormous end of summer barbecue block party that ran from mid-morning to nightfall. Everyone gorged themselves on burgers and brisket, beans and slaw, and Mrs. Watkins' world famous Ambrosia Salad. Family dogs wandered the street snuffling at castoff bones and begged for hot dogs until each and every one of them were as fit to burst as the rest of us. I myself emptied no less than eight Dr. Pepper cans, a personal record.
As darkness fell, Jeff's dad set off a fireworks display that rivaled the town's Fourth of July celebration. This signaled the end of the outdoor festivities, though not the end of the party. Five of the families, including my own, repaired to the Carmichael's house for cocktails, dancing, and (I suspected) enough cocaine to keep the party going until dawn.
Sadie's parents, the Carmichaels, owned the largest house on the block. It was a sprawling two story mini-mansion with a full basement and attic, five bedrooms, a wet bar, a billiards room, and no fewer than three and a half bathrooms. No one could adequately explain what Mr. Carmichael did for a living, but it evidently paid much more than my dad's foreman position at the local meat packing plant. No one seemed to resent his success either. He was happy to spread it around, and practically bankrolled the entire block party.
There were seven of us kids who were old enough to tag along without younger kids to babysit, all of us between the ages of twelve and fourteen. A simmering cauldron of puberty, exiled to the upper floor for the duration of the nocturnal festivities. We had all lived here for our entire lives with the exception of Khalil Watkins, who moved in two houses down from me about three years prior.
We joked that he was our 'token black friend,' but only to shock our desperately politically correct parents. His actual claim to fame was a seemingly endless collection of dirty jokes. I later learned all these jokes came from a well-thumbed paperback he found in a truck stop bathroom when he was ten. I found this mildly disillusioning and sort of disgusting.
Jeff Holloway was my best friend, and his dad was my dad's best friend. Heh, Funny how that works out, isn't it? We had one of those friendships that was so close people either thought we were brothers or, as was the nomenclature of the time, "butt-buddies." The hit movie that summer was Jurassic Park, and the two of us had seen it six times. We could quote it word for word and had been humming the theme song for weeks.
We spent the previous summer grounded and mired in the agony of separation. After having seen a film entitled Swamp Thing, he decided he wanted to reproduce one of the film's most impressive stunts: A full body burn. We managed a partial pant-leg burn, and the gruesome blisters this produced were the source of much parental furor and no small amount of hoopla.
Ashley and Ashton Valentine were fraternal twins, both of them pale and towheaded with icy blue eyes. We called them The Children of the Corn and they called us assholes. Whatever. They knew they were creepy looking. They went everywhere in matching outfits holding hands until the fourth grade. They only stopped then because we kept picking on them about it, just as real friends do.
