An arsonist's guide to writers' homes in New England: a novel - By Brock Clarke Page 0,11

one in years, but I remembered the way they talked, always leading you away from your version of the truth and toward theirs; I remembered their tiny spiral-bound notebooks and the way they looked so eager to ask you their questions, to which they already knew the answers, and so disappointed in the way you answered them.

"Yes, I'm Sam," I said, then raised my eyes to look at the reporter and found that he wasn't one, which I could tell at first glance. For one thing, no visible notebook. For another, no pen or pencil. And unlike the reporters I remembered, now that he'd asked his question and I'd answered it, he didn't seem inclined to ask another one but instead just stood there and looked at me. I let him, and looked back, too. He was not so tall, but he was skinny, real skinny; I could tell this even under all his clothes. He was wearing lined jeans (I could see the red flannel peeking out from under the cuffs and over the hiking boots) and a flannel shirt over which he wore a corduroy shirt over which he wore a fleece vest, even though it was freakishly warm out for November, and if I'd known the guy better I would have told him that if he ate more he wouldn't have to wear so many clothes. I was a walking, shirtless advertisement for that truth. And then there was his face, which was gaunt, and pale, so pale, and pockmarked, too; if my face was the flaming sun, then his was the cratered moon.

"I'm Thomas Coleman," he said.

"OK, nice to meet you," I said, and stuck out my hand, which Thomas didn't take. His jaw started pumping a little bit, as if working up some saliva to spit on the hand I offered to him, and so I took it back.

"You don't recognize my name, do you?" he said, and he was right in that. There was nothing, no bells or whistles; right then my memory was a happy, empty, echoing place.

"Well, I do recognize the name Thomas," I said, trying to be polite. "But then again, it's a pretty common name." Which it was, and I meant this seriously, but he took it as sarcasm. I could tell by the way his jaw started working double time. He was an angry man, all right, and maybe that's why he was so skinny: chewing so hard on his anger that he didn't have the time or the energy or the appetite to chew on anything else.

"Thomas Coleman," he finally said. "My parents were Linda and David Coleman. You killed them in the Emily Dickinson House fire."

"Oh!" I said, since I didn't know what else to say, and then, because this suddenly seemed like a more formal occasion, I put my shirt on. Once I was fully clothed, and out of nervousness, I went into a flurry of greeting: I shook his hand ― I went out and grabbed it this time, there was no stopping me ― slapped his back, asked, "How are you? So good to see you. How've you been?" and so on. All of this may seem horribly inappropriate, but what should I have done? There is no etiquette book for this sort of thing; I was writing it as I stood there. Besides, Thomas didn't seem to think that I'd been so inappropriate ― maybe after you've accidentally killed someone's parents, every other offense is minor by comparison. His face even seemed to get a little color when I asked him if he wanted a drink ― beer, juice, I told Thomas he could have whatever he wanted ― although it may have been the glow off my own face illuminating his pockmarks. I really was giving off some heat and light; I probably could have powered the whole subdivision if there'd been a blackout.

"Do you recognize my name now?" he asked. "Do you recognize my parents' names?"

"Sort of," I said, even though I didn't, not really, and even at the trial I tried hard not to know their names, as my future seemed a lot more likely a prospect if I forgot the details of my past. "I don't really remember the whole thing all that well," I told him, which as I've mentioned is a talent of mine and was true besides. Even now, with Thomas in front of me, the fire and the smoke and his parents' burning bodies were