Free Arson by Estevan Vega Page B

made. From the looks of the threads in her hand, she was sewing a new blanket.
    â€œI know,” Arson said. Shivers slid down the back of his wet neck.
    â€œWould you close that door, love? We don’t live on a farm, for heaven’s sake.”
    Arson stepped back and pushed the door shut, the wind escaping from beneath the wooden frames with a soft whisper. He knew what was coming. He never meant to upset her, but he was well aware that he’d already done that.
    â€œNow lock the door, just in case.” She looked at him; her eyes were rings of fire on his cold skin. “Come sit by me, won’t you?”
    Slowly Arson drew near, apprehensive but willing.
    â€œGo on. I’m not gonna bite you, just wanna talk, that’s all.” A graceful set of dimples sucked her cheeks in a bit as she made the request, tapping the seat beside her. She looked innocent enough, white hair scaling across her shoulder and eyes that baited him.
    He fell into the seat and kept still. Awaiting punishment was a far more difficult task than being honest with his grandmother. The way she looked at him, as if he’d committed crimes unable to be uttered, made his bones want to shatter. Her gaze was inescapable, and her mouth stuttered but didn’t speak. Each wrinkle in her face had an opportunity to manipulate and condemn. Each passing second did the same.
    â€œSo, what’s her name?”
    He bit his lip, quickly spitting out, “Emery,” before having a chance to even think.
    â€œThat’s a sweet name. I’ll bet she’s a sweet girl.” Grandma led another line of fabric through a loop with her needle; she looked focused, eyes never drifting from her work.
    Arson knew she was playing nice but wondered how long it would last. “I guess. We only talked for five minutes.”
    â€œWell,” Grandma said matter-of-factly, “five minutes seemed like enough time to get her clothes off and hop into the lake.” Her accusing, biting tone sliced through the air like a knife, cutting deeper than metal ever could.
    Arson’s elbows hit the table, frustrated. Right then, Grandma smacked them both hard with the back of her hand, her diamond ring splitting open a chunk of his wet skin. Tears of red slipped out.
    â€œLike I said, she seemed…sweet.”
    â€œWe weren’t skinny dipping,” Arson pleaded. “We weren’t even swimming.”
    â€œOf course not, heaven forbid.” Grandma’s fingers guided her mood, the needle a forecast to the manipulation that would follow. Arson didn’t like it. He wanted out of this interrogation, in which Grandma played both good and bad cop. The white walls and manila envelopes, the complimentary coffee and handcuffs, were replaced by condemning eyes, a needle, and bitter speculation. Convicts in movies rarely made it out of such cross-examinations intact. Winning just didn’t seem possible.
    â€œI swear. I think she was trying to rescue me.”
    Grandma stopped sewing altogether and placed one hand on top of his. The bad cop was breathing now. “This little tramp is trouble. I feel it in my bones. Henry feels it too.”
    Arson felt his eyes roll like marbles inside his head.
    â€œDon’t you dare mock me!” Grandma hissed, smacking the table. “And don’t you dare mock your granddaddy. You know I don’t like you going into that lake. You know how it bothers me. Don’t you care about me anymore?”
    Arson nodded weakly. He brushed the dark, wet strands of hair away from his face and tucked them behind his ears. She was suffocating him.
    â€œYou’re not a fish, for heaven’s sake. The Lord gave you two feet. You were meant to be on dry land, not holding your breath underwater like some crazy… Oh, what am I going to do with you?” She stood up and sighed, rubbing the crevices on her pale face. Her eyes were cold and condescending, two dreamless