Read Online A Different Alchemy by Chris Dietzel - Free Book Online
Authors: Chris Dietzel
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result of such acts. Maybe the few remaining volunteer firefighters would arrive and put it out so it didn’t spread to the neighboring houses. But maybe they wouldn’t. It was a guarantee that the police wouldn’t take a report. The few remaining cops never bothered investigating house fires anymore because they too understood that the arsonists were on their way south. What were they going to do, extradite them back to Philadelphia just as the city was getting ready to evacuate?
He still didn’t understand why it happened. He knew what the people were thinking when they lit the match, but he didn’t understand the reasoning that got them to that point. They were doing it because they were leaving the area for good, heading south, and didn’t want anybody else to live in the home that held special value for them, as though a family from Montreal or Syracuse would taint their house’s memories. It took a special kind of egotism to think a house that was built fifty years earlier, had been lived in by three other families before they had lived in it, held some special significance strong enough for one family and one family only. Good riddance to whoever it was.
The proper thing to do, the custom that people everywhere had taken to as they moved further south, was to leave their house in proper working order for the next people who wanted it. The doors remained unlocked. The garage was left open. Some people even went as far as to vacuum and dust before they left. These were the people who understood they were beginning the next part of their life, and that somebody else was taking part in the same journey as well. These people knew that karma always repaid its debts.
Part of him thought about waking Katherine so she could see the house burning. It was a no-win situation, though. She would be terrified if he woke her up to see another burning home. But if he didn’t, if she found out the next day, she would be afraid to fall asleep at all for fear of what happened when she was dreaming. That was just how she worked. The first time he saw one of the fires, she had been brushing her teeth.
“Hey, honey,” he had called to her and she appeared in the bathroom doorway. “Check this out.”
At the time, neither of them was accustomed to people burning down their houses on their way out of the city. Both of them had thought it was a life or death situation. Like a fool, he had called 911. Ever since then, she had never been able to see one of the house fires without feeling a sense of dread. Each time, she would start packing their bags while he convinced her it was better to leave with everyone else as the entire city—what was left of the city—made the trip to Washington together.
And so he let her sleep. She would see the smoldering remains the next morning, and when that happened he would feign surprise and act like he hadn’t seen anything either. It was, he had learned, the best way to handle things. Live and learn.
Hours later, surrounded by boxes of paper once again, he was still thinking about how to keep her from getting upset so often. All around him were cabinets full of paperwork that no longer served a purpose. The boxes behind him contained photocopied records of every single invoice dealing with sustaining the living quarters. Somewhere else on base there were boxes full of similar invoices which detailed the amounts, dates of purchase, and vendor POCs for the dining halls. He had no idea where those boxes were, but they were taking up at least twenty square feet of space somewhere else on Fort Dix. Somewhere else on the base were boxes of paper dealing with every mechanical part of every piece of equipment, every gun, every computer, everything. And those were just the invoices, a tiny blip on the paperwork radar compared to the military’s annual reports, its progress reports, the annual inspection results, the yearly performance results. They had reports for everything.
What was the point of
He still didn’t understand why it happened. He knew what the people were thinking when they lit the match, but he didn’t understand the reasoning that got them to that point. They were doing it because they were leaving the area for good, heading south, and didn’t want anybody else to live in the home that held special value for them, as though a family from Montreal or Syracuse would taint their house’s memories. It took a special kind of egotism to think a house that was built fifty years earlier, had been lived in by three other families before they had lived in it, held some special significance strong enough for one family and one family only. Good riddance to whoever it was.
The proper thing to do, the custom that people everywhere had taken to as they moved further south, was to leave their house in proper working order for the next people who wanted it. The doors remained unlocked. The garage was left open. Some people even went as far as to vacuum and dust before they left. These were the people who understood they were beginning the next part of their life, and that somebody else was taking part in the same journey as well. These people knew that karma always repaid its debts.
Part of him thought about waking Katherine so she could see the house burning. It was a no-win situation, though. She would be terrified if he woke her up to see another burning home. But if he didn’t, if she found out the next day, she would be afraid to fall asleep at all for fear of what happened when she was dreaming. That was just how she worked. The first time he saw one of the fires, she had been brushing her teeth.
“Hey, honey,” he had called to her and she appeared in the bathroom doorway. “Check this out.”
At the time, neither of them was accustomed to people burning down their houses on their way out of the city. Both of them had thought it was a life or death situation. Like a fool, he had called 911. Ever since then, she had never been able to see one of the house fires without feeling a sense of dread. Each time, she would start packing their bags while he convinced her it was better to leave with everyone else as the entire city—what was left of the city—made the trip to Washington together.
And so he let her sleep. She would see the smoldering remains the next morning, and when that happened he would feign surprise and act like he hadn’t seen anything either. It was, he had learned, the best way to handle things. Live and learn.
Hours later, surrounded by boxes of paper once again, he was still thinking about how to keep her from getting upset so often. All around him were cabinets full of paperwork that no longer served a purpose. The boxes behind him contained photocopied records of every single invoice dealing with sustaining the living quarters. Somewhere else on base there were boxes full of similar invoices which detailed the amounts, dates of purchase, and vendor POCs for the dining halls. He had no idea where those boxes were, but they were taking up at least twenty square feet of space somewhere else on Fort Dix. Somewhere else on the base were boxes of paper dealing with every mechanical part of every piece of equipment, every gun, every computer, everything. And those were just the invoices, a tiny blip on the paperwork radar compared to the military’s annual reports, its progress reports, the annual inspection results, the yearly performance results. They had reports for everything.
What was the point of
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