Playing With Fire

“Lauren! Can you come down here for a minute? Your mother and I would like to talk to you."

Lauren Montgomery is 27 years old. She has just moved back into her parent’s house for the first time in 9 years. Surprisingly (or not) nothing has changed. 

“Be right down!” Lauren lives on the top floor of their two story house. It contains a second bedroom that has remained vacant since the departure of her sister to the other coast, and a half bath who carpeted floor is stained with bleach in the effort of removing kitten birthing fluids. 

Lauren runs down the same steps she has since she turned 10 years old, and was packed off to the attic.  Her hand grabs the banister at its well worn surface, white paint now a dullish grey. She skips through the ‘Hall of Shame’ whose containments’ are reminders of the adorable stages of early childhood, and the hideous transformations of adolescence. Rounding the corner she finds herself in the small country kitchen, both parents seated at the countertop in the high-backed stools her father bought without her mother’s permission at a Loews Memorial Day Sale. 

Her mother slowly picks up a Port Marin mug full of Red Rose Tea and sips. Port Marin being the fine china of the Montgomery household, is only used by Nancy or for special occasions; Red Rose Tea was on sale at ShopRite and cheaper then Barry’s this week. “You father and I would like to talk to you about your moving truck.” Nanc had a habit of making all conversations involving monetary funds formal. 

“Yeah, when is it coming again?” Phil was flipping through the sports page of The Post, the newspaper he had stolen from his own father earlier in the day. In his right hand was a cup Maxwell House, brewed in a way that, if possible, made the taste worse. Phil was a smart man and a bad listener, devoting most of his concentration to the next home remodeling project, ‘Maybe re-tiling the floor in the main bathroom?’ They had been uneven since his last attempt when Lauren was 12, but the kids had learned to walk on them in bare feet without cutting themselves.

“Tomorrow morning, hopefully before class,” Lauren had held a BA in Lighting Design for 6 years, an ESL degree for 3, an AA in Library Science since for 1, a bartending certificate for 7, and this year fancied herself a writer. School tuition was a prominent reason in her “decision” to re-occupy the house of her youth. 

“What time is class?” he asked, turning the page to see the details behind the Giants defeat. 

“1 o’clock.” Lauren’s classes were at 1pm every Tuesday through Thursday and had been for 4 weeks.

“Well what happens if it doesn’t come by then. I’m certainly not moving any boxes.” Nanc, at times, had a flair for the dramatic.

“They are moving all the boxes; just tell them to put them in the basement. I’ll leave the money on the table by the front door. Its $600 cash, I think the moving van is $500, and you can just tip them.” Lauren looked at her dad to make sure he was paying attention, he was not. She punched his shoulder. “It will be in a white Bank of America envelope by the front door, don’t touch it.”

Phil looked up at his wife and daughter and knew he was supposed to be paying attention to whatever it was they were talking about. “I got it.” He said but, in fact, did not.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The next day is cold and wet. Phil, being the first one awake, takes it upon himself to start a fire. He grabs some of the wood he had cleverly brought in from the porch the night before in anticipation of the weather change. He grabs scrap papers and old Post’s scattered throughout the house, and starts a blaze. 

The rest of the family wake and all are warmed by the comfort of its heat and warming light. “Good thinking Dad!” Lauren says patting him on the back. She has not been exposed to a real fire since last Christmas. 

“This is just what I needed to get me out of bed!” Says Nanc, as she curls up in her robe, and a throw blanket in the near by rocking chair. She sips her tea, and watches the red and yellow flames dance across the black streaked window of the fireplace door. 

The day passes, and the household revolves mostly around the great fireplace and its 600 dollar flames. It is 10:00am when the moving truck arrives, and all are relieved that Lauren will be here to deal with it. The driver approaches the front door, paperwork in hand. Lauren walks to the table to retrieve her cash, but finds it’s surface bare. 

Nervously she shares a look with her mother, and both turn to Phil. He is playing with the fire. “Hey dad, where’s my envelope?