Being poor damages your soul, and it’s especially damaging if you have to spend a lot of time around people with money. To someone who has it, money is a quasi-magical reflection of their positive qualities—intelligence, diligence, or perseverance or whatever. They have money because they deserve it, so, ipso-facto…
It’s the kind of thing that can grate on you when it’s in your face year after year. It’s no excuse for what I did, but it explains it a little. My soul was compromised by all those years of living hand-to-mouth.
When I got married and started a family, I thought daddy would soften up and share the wealth—we even named our daughter after him: Justine Jeffery Novak—but he was just as tight-fisted as ever. Sure, he gave my husband a job, but it’s not like Mike got any special treatment at the shop. Daddy had him doing oil changes and tire rotations for five years before he got promoted to supervisor. Five years! A guy who came on after Mike got promoted to supervisor after two years and he was an unreliable drug addict. Since Mike started working for daddy, he never took a sick-day. Not one.
Even after he made Mike a supervisor, daddy still talked down to him in front of customers and the other mechanics. The old man had a mean-streak and the closer you were to him, the more meanness you had to take. I won’t even go into the shit he put my mom through.
She always said it was because of his rough upbringing and the time he spent in prison. Daddy did a four-year stretch for arson back in the nineties. He never talked about it.
You’ve probably heard how tough it is for ex-cons when they get out, but daddy didn’t have any trouble at all. Right after he was released, he bought a corner lot and built the shop. It was Mike who told me what that meant—he said my father had kept his mouth shut and done his bid and he’d been rewarded. I never saw any overt signs that daddy was in business with the mob, although I have a cousin who’s in prison for some kind of fraud. I guess my family isn’t what you’d call squeaky-clean.
I know, I know: get to the point Beverly.
I’ll tell you everything, but I need you to understand that daddy wasn’t some wonderful guy. He brought his girlfriend to my mom’s funeral—that’s the kind of man I’m talking about. His wife of 37 years was being laid to rest (seriously, fuck cancer) and there’s some bimbo sitting in daddy’s car, updating her Instagram. You’d better believe I had some words with daddy about that.
After mom died, daddy and I had to sort through a bunch of paperwork, which was how I found out about the insurance. Mom and dad lived in a big house in Prospect Park, and if you know the neighborhood you know the kind of house I mean. Some would call it a mansion. I guess mom had been talked into an expensive insurance policy that paid out a ton of money for flood, earthquake, storm damage, or fire. Daddy decided to keep the policy, but he mentioned that with his criminal record, the company probably wouldn’t pay out for fire.
“At the very least, the bastards would hold it up for a year while they investigated,” he said. “With my luck, they’d pin it on me and put me away again.”
That appealed to me. If daddy got sent back to prison, he’d definitely leave Mike in charge of the shop. No one else knew the ins and outs of the place like Mike. If daddy went away for six or seven years, he’d have to let Mike take over the business or it would fall apart. I knew how much money flowed through that place. In five or six years, Mike and I could stash away a substantial nest egg.
Following that train of thought, I realized that if there was a fire that looked like arson, daddy would assume his brother-in-law had set him up. See, the house in Prospect Park was a major point of conflict in my family. It was originally bought in my grandmother’s name and she’d lived there with my mom and dad for 12 years before she passed away. By then, she’d ‘sold’ the house to daddy so he could avoid paying inheritance tax.
That whole arrangement made Uncle Rick angry. He’d figured he was in for a major payday when his mother-in-law kicked. It was silly because everyone knew that daddy had bought the house—it was just in my grandmother’s name for obscure legal reasons. But Rick would hear none of it and the fight got physical on two occasions.
The fracture in my family looked like an escape-route out of poverty. I saw daylight and I clawed my way toward it. Mike had always talked about opening his own garage, but we needed an initial investment or seed-money or whatever you want to call it. I wasn’t motivated by greed—it was for my husband. Mike had never gotten a break in life, he was the kind of man who had to work like a demon just to get things other people took for granted. “You married either the dumbest or the unluckiest sunnovabitch on the planet,” was how daddy put it.
I usually went over to daddy’s place after I dropped Justine off at school to do the stuff mom used to do, like emptying the dishwasher and letting the dog out. It gave me plenty of time to use the old man’s computer to search things like ‘common causes of house fires,’ ‘how house fires spread,’ and ‘how arson is detected.’
Before my grandmother died, she’d maintained an open-door policy for the whole family, so everyone knew where the spare key was hidden and daddy hadn’t bothered to remove it. Uncle Rick could’ve easily snuck in and done those searches on daddy’s computer. It wasn’t password protected—we’re talking about a ten-year-old PC with a fan that sounded like a Hitachi Magic Wand set to maximum vibration.
My internet research taught me that after space-heaters and kitchen mishaps, live Christmas trees were the number three cause of catastrophic house fires. It was almost that time of year, so a real plan began to take shape.
But it was the first Christmas with mom gone and daddy said he wasn’t planning to decorate. It wasn’t depression or anything, it was pure laziness. Mom used to do all the work. I told him it would be too sad for Justine to see the house bare at Christmastime, and that I’d take care of it all myself.
There was an artificial tree in the basement, but I dragged Mike and Justine out on a Saturday and got the biggest live tree I could find. Mike was confused about the whole thing. “Thanksgiving’s still a week away! Why are you decorating now?”
I didn’t have much of an answer. We always waited until December to decorate our place, and even then it was just a tree, a wreath, and some lights. So he didn’t understand why I was draping evergreen garland all through the first floor of daddy’s house. We set up the tree close to the heater vent in the living room. I made Mike hold it straight while I screwed in the bolts on the stand and Justine played a videogame on my phone. I pretended to pour water in it and turned the heat up before we left.
All daddy said about my efforts was, “I hope you’ll be just as enthusiastic about taking it all down come January.”
The tree and garland were just the beginning. I put up lights, wreaths, nutcrackers, and a small wooden nativity I found at a yard sale that looked remarkably like kindling. I think it was the third or fourth time I told Mike I was going over to daddy’s house to decorate when he finally blew up at me. “What the fuck? Why are you doing all this? You think he appreciates it? He doesn’t!”
“Honey, I just want it to be nice for Justine…”
“She doesn’t care!” he shouted. “You’re acting like that house is still the heart of your family, but it’s not. It’s just the place where that miserable fuck lives. Why are you turning it into some kind of Hallmark nightmare?”
“Babe…”
“This has to be grief. You bottled up all your feelings when your mom died, and now they’re coming out in this weird-ass way. Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter how nice you make the house Beverly, it’s not yours!”
“I know. I just…”
“I wish like hell I could buy us a house of our own, but I don’t see it happening anytime soon.” He had that hopeless tone that I’d become familiar with. “When you spend so much time at that house, it’s like you’re saying our place isn’t good enough. I mean, I know it’s not but can’t we at least pretend at Christmastime?”
“Honey, I love our little apartment. I do,” I said. “This weekend we’ll get a tree of our own and decorate around here. I just have a few more things to do at daddy’s.”
He was angry that he hadn’t talked me out of going, but what could I say? I couldn’t tell him what I was really up to. Once daddy was in jail and Mike was running the shop, I’d drop a hint and gauge his reaction. Maybe if I told him, it would bring us closer together.
Every time I went over to daddy’s house, I checked the tree to make sure it was drying out, and after three weeks it was brittle and shedding needles at the slightest touch. I’d vacuum them up and imagine the giant tree catching fire and lighting the garland wick that ran through the hallway into the dining room. I was afraid the thing might ignite early and spoil my plans.
I picked the weekend of Aunt Mel’s Christmas party to do it.
On the Sunday before Christmas, Mike’s sister always had a big dinner for his whole family. It was one of the only times all year that they saw each other. Mike’s family wasn’t like mine—they weren’t all entangled in each other’s lives.
I figured I could make an excuse to skip the party and Mike and Justine would be out of the apartment long enough for me to get the job done. The plan was simple: set off the burglar alarm at the shop to draw daddy over there while I went to his house and started the fire. By the time he got home, it would be too late. I’d stop back by the shop to plant some evidence and bing-bang-boom. Assuming the cops did a reasonable job, daddy would be arrested.
But that weekend Mike started acting weird. Friday night before bed, he decided he had to replace a burnt-out light bulb in the kitchen. We didn’t have any, so he went out and was gone for a long time. When he finally got back, he was all sweaty and had a four-pack of lightbulbs from the 7-11 two blocks away.
He kept insisting that he’d only been gone twenty minutes, but it was over an hour. He said Home Depot was closed, so he tried two other places that were also closed, and finally just bought the expensive ones at the convenience store. It was obvious he was lying. I was afraid he was back on pills so I looked up the balance in our joint checking account, but there were no major withdrawals.
He acted weird and twitchy all day Saturday and started drinking beer at lunch and didn’t stop until he was snoring on the couch at 6 PM with college football on the TV. He was almost back to normal on Sunday, but his mood made me nervous. He seemed more short-tempered than usual, so I expected the worst when I told him I had a migraine and couldn’t go to his sister’s party. I half-expected him to argue with me or say that he and Justine would stay home too, but he surprised me. He seemed concerned and reminded me to stay hydrated.
Mike and Justine left at around six. I waited until seven, then left the apartment without my phone. But when I got to the shop, I felt like giving up on the whole thing because daddy’s Escalade was already there, parked in its usual spot. What was he doing there? And beyond that, what if he decided to leave soon? He might only be five or ten minutes behind me, which would mean he’d get home while I was still setting the fire.
I drove around the block, thinking, and then I had to laugh at myself. So what if he was at the shop? He wasn’t at the house, that was the main thing, and what were the odds that his next stop would be home? Most likely he’d be going to some bar to meet his latest girlfriend. I decided to continue on with my plan as if I hadn’t hit a snag. I pointed my car toward Prospect Park.
It was a little after eight when I got to daddy’s house. I let the dog out into the backyard, then went up to his room and put on the soft sweater my mom had bought daddy two years earlier. It came down to my thighs and would certainly collect the smell of smoke.
I used a Bic lighter to light four branches on the bottom of the tree, then sat on the couch and watched it burn, feeling oddly peaceful and even Christmassy. The string of lights crackled and went out and the fire and smoke painted the ceiling above the tree black. I had a coughing fit and had to step into the hall, but I forced myself to go back in and make sure the garland had caught.
I’ll never forget the sound. The fire was raging, consuming half the room and it was traveling along the garland, just as I’d hoped. Soon it would be in the dining room. All the doors inside the house were open so that the fire could spread quickly.
I went out the back door and took the sweater off while Beau wagged his tail and watched me curiously. I smelled it, but I couldn’t tell if smoke had clung to the wool fabric. Everything probably smelled—my pants, my hair, me. I put the sweater in my trunk and rolled all my windows down as I pulled out of the driveway.
When I hit the street, I chanced a look back at the house and all I saw was a thin trail of smoke trickling into the dark sky. The sight made me happy. Inside, the fire raged like hell on earth, but the only outward sign was that little black line meandering upwards. By the time anyone noticed, the house would be a lost cause. It was two minutes after nine.
I was freezing, driving back to the shop with my windows open, but I couldn’t have the car stinking. I thought about Mike as I drove. I thought about how hard he worked and how little he had to show for it. He deserved to be the boss for a while. Once he’d seen himself in that role, it would be obvious that it suited him. He’d take his rightful place in the world as a leader, and he’d have the resources he lacked, financial and emotional, to set out on his own. Maybe he’d never know what I’d done for him, but it didn’t matter. I was giving him the gift of a new chapter in his life—a prosperous new chapter.
But when I got to the shop, daddy’s Escalade was still there.
I’d planned to drop the smoke-infused sweater in the dumpster out back, but I couldn’t risk it. Daddy always used the back door and he’d certainly pick the exact wrong moment to come out and catch me planting evidence. I saw a trashcan on the corner and pulled over. I threw the sweater away there instead, and drove off feeling like a dummy.
My plan no longer seemed elegant in its simplicity, it seemed like something a child would come up with. I decided I shouldn’t have gone through with it after I’d first seen daddy’s Escalade at the shop. What if he was with people who could give him a rock-solid alibi? He might’ve gotten a ride to a bar that had security cameras.
I got home at 9:33 and looked at my phone. No one had tried to contact me all night. I texted Mike: How’s the party?
Then I got out of my clothes and put them in the washing machine. I didn’t start it yet, first I went and took a shower, washing my hair twice to get rid of any lingering traces of carbon. When I got out, Mike still hadn’t texted back, but there was nothing unusual about that. I started the washing machine, set to hot with extra soap, then went to dry my hair. Mel’s parties usually ended at ten or eleven, so Mike and Justine could be home anytime and it would be better if they didn’t know I’d taken a shower.
I was almost done when my phone buzzed. It was daddy’s next door neighbor calling.
“WHAT?” I shouted when she told me my father’s house was on fire. “Is it bad? Is the fire department there?”
She told me the house had collapsed and that the fire department was just trying to contain it. I let a very convincing note of desperation creep into my voice when I asked her if daddy was okay.
“I’ve been trying to call him,” she said, “but he hasn’t answered. I just remembered I had your number in my phone.”
“I’m coming now,” I said. “I’m on my way!”
I started calling and texting daddy immediately, but he didn’t respond. I got dressed and sent Mike another text: There’s a fire at daddy’s house!!! I’m going there now CALL ME!!!
I had to pretend I thought daddy had been in the house for the benefit of the cops and firefighters there. I cried and yelled at one of the firemen for not going in. “Ma’am, the roof came down right after we got here. It was too late. Are you sure he was home?”
“God, I hope not,” I said, “I don’t see his car. What about Beau?”
“The dog? We tried to get him out of the backyard and he ran away…”
“He’s probably scared.” I started looking around and shouting for Beau. I left the firetrucks and smoldering remains of my father’s house and walked around the neighborhood, calling for the dog.
I found him standing in the middle of the street a block away. I brought him back and put him in my car, then texted daddy that Beau was okay but the house was gone and that he needed to get home immediately.
I was texting Mike again when a plainclothes cop approached me. He verified my name then gave me a blank look. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but your father is dead. We pulled his body out of the river this morning.”
I felt my knees buckle and he got a hold of me and propped me up a bit. “What?” I said.
“He didn’t have a wallet or any ID on him. We had to run his fingerprints.”
“No…it couldn’t be him.”
“His fingerprints were in the system,” the man said. He steadied me, then jotted something down in a small notepad.
“He…fell in the river?”
“Bruising around his neck suggests strangulation. We’re treating it as a homicide.”
He asked me when I’d seen daddy last and some other questions that I answered honestly while the thought ‘Mike did it’ muscled its way to the front of my mind. I don’t know why I thought that, but the idea wouldn’t go away.
I looked up and realized I was sitting on the ground. Maybe I’d blacked out for a second. The cop helped me to my feet and brought me to the bumper of one of the fire trucks. I sat there numb. The phone in my hand buzzed and I looked down and saw that it was Mike calling. I didn’t answer, which seemed to interest the detective or whatever he was. He got my contact information and said he’d be in touch. Mike sent some texts, but I didn’t even look at them.
It was almost midnight when he finally arrived. He parked at a stupid angle and got out of his truck, obviously drunk. He looked around and spotted me and tried to walk straight for the benefit of the cops. “What happened?” he asked.
I knew the detective was watching from his car. I got up and threw my arms around Mike like I needed emotional and physical support. “Why’d you kill him?” I whispered.
He looked at me confused—I could see the wheels turning in his head. He wanted to deny it, but he must’ve sensed that it would be useless. “For the house,” he whispered. “So you’d get the house. Don’t worry, there’s nothing to connect me to it.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks. “You did it for the house…” We both looked at the giant mound of smoldering wood and bricks hissing in the frozen winter air.
“Well…” he said quietly, “if it’s legally yours, you should get the insurance money.”
“They don’t pay out for arson,” I said.
He stared at me with his brow furrowed in dumb concentration.
I shook my head. Some sick part of me wanted to laugh. But no amount of laughter could dispel the black curse we’d brought down on ourselves.
If being poor damages your soul, being ground through the legal system can actually kill it. But you can go on living without a soul, did you know that? Most of the women in here are proof of it—just like me.
[Image Credit : Photo by Almas Salakhov on Unsplash]
by 
Andrew Blight
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