Path of Combustibility by Marie Anderson

Reformed troublemaker Nomar and his wife Maria move into the suburbs and struggle to get on with the neighbours.

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I'm not a badass anymore. Maria changed me.

We'd met in a creative writing class at the city junior college. Maria got the top grade in the class. I got the second highest, thanks to her help. It was the first A I'd gotten since fourth grade. Fourth grade was when my dad went to prison, my mom died, and my alcoholic aunt took me in. Fourth grade was when I started turning badass.

Maria's dad got me into the bricklayers union. I became employed, law-abiding, and even voted Republican once.

Maria is so smart and good. She teaches a Bible Study class at an old folks home. I've attended a few times, poured apple juice into plastic cups, fetched cookies for those in wheelchairs, even paid attention when the story is halfway interesting, like The Prodigal Son and Sodom and Gomorrah. Maria says the path of righteous behavior can always be found in the Bible. She's my moral compass.

We got married. We settled near her family in Chicago's Back of the Yards neighborhood.

Maria got pregnant. She miscarried in the ninth week.

Her grandma and parents, who lived in the flat above ours, began praying novenas. Maria's grandma also mixed up a vial of spices and herbs and told Maria to dissolve a tablespoon in her morning tea.

"My baby-making potion," her grandma said. Maria prayed the novenas with her grandma and parents, but I was relieved that she only pretended to use her grandma's potion. Her grandma had a reputation in the neighborhood for being a bruja, using spells, rituals, potions, and powders to solve any kind of problem a paying customer might have. I believed it was just coincidence, not the old lady's voodoo hijinks, that brought trouble to those causing trouble, or success to those worthy of success.

I had as much faith in potions as I did in prayers. Or the Bible.

Maria got pregnant again. She miscarried, again in the ninth week.

"It's the environment," I told her. "We gotta get outta the city. Bad air quality. Lead in the pipes. Rats in the alley."

We found a house on a quiet street in a leafy suburb, far from the gangs and graffiti and troubled schools that infected our Chicago neighborhood.

"This is the kind of village people don't leave," the real estate agent said.

We were standing on the deck of the house, ready to make an offer. A brisk March breeze was making Maria's hair dance.

The house had been on the market a while. It was an odd color. "Like a bad sunburn on a white guy," Maria joked the first time we saw it.

"Nothing paint won't cure," I'd replied.

"Light brown, then," Maria suggested. "My favorite color."

The house was small, old, still had fuse boxes instead of circuit breakers, pull chains instead of switches, radiators, no A/C, tiny closets.

But we could afford it.

"A lot of folks living here now grew up in this town," Missy the agent said. "Their parents, too."

Maria and I smiled. We both thought this was a good thing.

I didn't like the agent. She was an overnourished woman with long fingernails and platinum blonde hair. Five years ago I might have let the air out of her Lexus tires just for kicks. But that wasn't me anymore. I'd jumped off the devil path when I fell in love with Maria.

"So," the agent pushed. "What do you think?"

From the deck we could see over the privacy fence separating our future yard from the next-door neighbors. Their house was the corner lot, so their yard was huge, much larger than ours, and beautifully landscaped. Trees lined the fence on their side.

Our little yard was treeless and all wood chips. Black weed fabric showed in spots.

"Place needs a lot of updating," I said to the agent.

"But for a great town like this, you're lucky to have found something in your price range," she shot back.

My hands hardened into fists.

"What's that thing?" Maria asked. She pointed to a 10-foot-high brick rectangle in the neighboring yard. It was only a few feet from the lot line and about 20 feet from our house.

"Gee," the agent said. "I'm not sure what that is. But that sure is a pretty patio around it."

We could see part of the pretty patio through the still leafless trees surrounding it. I thought how nice it would be for us when the trees were in full leaf.

"Looks like a dragon," Maria said. "Those two openings at the top look like nostrils."

We all laughed. A man and woman emerged from the house next door. They looked at us. We waved and smiled.

"We're admiring your beautiful yard," Maria called out.

They didn't respond. They went back into their house.

The agent coughed. "They must not've heard you."

Or they're assholes, I thought.

But Maria, who always gave others the benefit of the doubt - that's how I got lucky enough to be her husband - agreed with the agent.

"Yep, the west wind doth blow," Maria said. "Probably carried my voice away from their ears."

We bought the house. The day we moved in, Maria discovered she was pregnant again.

Maria loved our new home. It bothered me that no one was ringing our doorbell, welcoming us to the block, but if Maria didn't mind, I wouldn't either.

Our important windows - kitchen, family room, Maria's sewing room - faced our neighbors' beautiful yard, as did the room upstairs we were turning into a nursery.

"We have a beautiful vista," Maria said, "without the hassle of maintenance."

We'd glimpse our neighbors through our windows. They'd be puttering in their yard or lugging stuff from their garage to their house. They'd look up, see us in our windows. We'd smile and wave. Sometimes they'd lift their arms in response, more like a get-away-from-me-gesture than a wave, I thought. But Maria didn't complain. So I didn't either.

They never smiled at us. We didn't even know their names.

We were too busy to reach out first. Maria was sewing and readying the nursery. I was putting in overtime on a new warehouse being built in the city.

We'd take evening walks, nod and smile at everyone we encountered, but no one managed to make themselves known to us beyond hellos and comments on the weather.

"Don't fret," Maria would say when I'd grumble how standoffish these suburbanites seemed to be. "Once the baby comes, we'll be connecting with other parents at that park down the street."

The danger week, the ninth week, approached, the week Maria had miscarried the two earlier pregnancies.

"I feel good about this one, Nomar," Maria would reassure me during our nightly snuggles on the sofa. "You were right. Moving to a nice, safe, clean suburb is making a difference."

I'm not a badass anymore, but I'm not a praying guy either. Yet, I found myself praying.

At week 10, Maria was still pregnant. We'd been in our home for two months. We poured orange juice into champagne flutes and raised a toast around our kitchen table.

It was a beautiful evening in June. Through our open windows, birds and breezes serenaded us.

Suddenly, Maria gasped. "Nomar! Something's burning!"

I smelled smoke, too. We hurried to our kitchen windows. Saw white smoke pouring into our yard. Pouring from the brick structure in our neighbor's yard.

"The dragon!" Maria slapped her hand over her nose.

"He's burning wood," I said. "That's an outdoor fireplace he's got there!"

Maria coughed. "The smell's so strong! It's like we have a smokestack next door!"

We shut all our windows. By the time we went to bed a few hours later, the dragon still burned, and we'd learned from a Google search that wood smoke was a very bad thing to breathe. Especially for an expectant mom.

The next day after work, I approached our neighbor in his yard. He was wheelbarrowing wood from a pickup truck in his driveway and stacking the wood along the fence between our yards.

Cords of wood lined the fence. A lot of wood. I looked at the fireplace, the first time I was seeing it from the front. The beast was big, its mouth probably six feet wide, six feet high. Wood for the next fire was already stacked in the hearth.

Our neighbor set down the wheelbarrow and scowled. Sweat slicked his pale face. He appeared to be about 15 years older than me, maybe mid-forties. His white T-shirt bragged that he'd run the Chicago Marathon last year. He was not tall. I had maybe five inches on him. That made me a bit anxious. Short guys sometimes compensate with a big attitude.

"About time you showed up." He spat, the hocker landing near my shoes. "Did you bring an extra wheelbarrow like I asked?"

I shook my head. "I'm Nomar, from next door?"

"Oh." A too-long pause. Then, "Steve."

Neither of us extended a hand to shake.

Five years ago I might've punched the attitude right off his face. But I don't go that way anymore.

"Your yard is beautiful, Steve."

"Guess you see it as much as us, Norm. All your windows."

"It's Nomar, Steve."

Steve shrugged. "Wife says all your windows facing us make her feel like she's living in a fishbowl. Previous owner was a flight attendant. She traveled a lot. We hardly ever saw her." He coughed without covering his mouth. "Nomar."

My cheeks burned. I struggled to keep my voice steady. "Steve, when you burned wood in your outdoor fireplace last night, we got the odor bad. Smoke, too. Like a cloud was in our yard."

Steve frowned. "We were testing it out. We didn't smell anything bad or get any smoke."

"Must've been a west wind, Steve. We were downwind. We got it all. We had to close our windows."

"So didn't that solve your problem?"

"We like fresh air! Plus we don't have A/C! So we like to keep our windows open!"

Steve pointed to the stacks of firewood along the fence. "You telling me I can't use my fireplace?"

"You telling me my wife and I gotta breathe your pollution?"

We stared at each other.

"Look, Steve." I forced my voice to stay low and calm. "Wood smoke's not good to breathe. Internet says it's like cigarette smoke and diesel exhaust. And it's loaded with these toxic particulates that can seep into our house and lodge deep in our lungs even if we keep the doors and windows shut. Instead of wood, you could - "

"Nomar," Steve interrupted. "I don't know what you burn in your country, but this is America. We got freedoms here. My fireplace is legal. Maybe this isn't the best town for you."

"Excuse me?"

But Steve was walking to his house.

"You could burn natural gas!" I shouted. "So you could enjoy your little fires without polluting your neighbors' air!" My heart hammered my chest. "And I'm as American as you, asshole! I was born in Chicago!"

Steve turned and waved. "Adios, amigo!" he shouted. Then he disappeared into his house.

I went right up to the dragon. I could see it was already piped for natural gas. He was using gas to ignite the wood. So it wouldn't be a big deal to switch completely over to gas. I turned away and saw Steve standing just outside his back door. His thin blonde wife was standing next to him, her arms crossed over her chest. Shaking her head and scowling.

"You got too many windows!" she called out. "Get rid of the ones looking at us, and then we'll all be better off!"

I took a step toward them.

Steve held up a phone. "Get off my property or I'm calling the cops!"

Five years ago I might have knocked that cell phone outta his paw and a few teeth outta his mouth.

I went home.

The next night, Steve burned again. I stood on my deck, breathing wood smoke, and peered through the trees surrounding their patio. I glimpsed couples sipping drinks. I heard tabs being pulled on cans, Dave Matthews softly singing, laughter, chatter. It was dark, but the faces caught in the fire's glow looked familiar, folks from nearby homes perhaps, who Maria and I had greeted during our evening walks. Sparks snapped from the dragon's nostrils into the trees.

A neighborhood gathering. But we, the next-door neighbors, hadn't been invited.

I walked once around our block, surprised how quickly the odor diminished away from my house. So we were alone, Maria and me. We were the ones who'd absorb the pollution whenever the west winds blew. And we lived in the westerlies.

I returned home, went inside. Our home stank with wood smoke odor.

It was a beautiful June night, but all our windows were shut. Still, thanks to the westerly breezes, the smell seeped in. Maria sat in the bathroom with the door closed and a rolled towel covering the gap under the door. It was the only room without wood smoke odor.

I sat at our kitchen table, clenched my fists.

"Maria!" I shouted. "I feel like grabbing my sledgehammer and smashing that smokestack!"

Maria emerged from the bathroom. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wet. She sat across from me, placed her hands over my fists.

"Nomar." She managed a smile. "You're a bricklayer, not a brick slayer."

I managed a smile back. I knew what she meant. I wasn't a badass anymore.

"We can't live like this," I said. "We're downwind. We're the ones who get the pollution. The wind carries the stink away from them and right into our home and lungs. It feels like the smoke is clawing my throat. I can taste it. I'm worried about our baby."

Maria nodded. "Let's reopen all our windows, Nomar."

I just looked at her.

She smiled. "Let's get the stink good and strong in our home. And then let's call the police."

"Okay, you're right. We can do this the right way, Maria. Steve is lucky I married you. Otherwise, one of these days, he'd look out his window and see nothing but rubble where his dragon used to burn."

Maria shook her head. "We can do this the right way." She kissed me, and for a moment all was good.

We opened our windows and called the police.

An officer soon arrived. He had small eyes, a large nose, and a wobbly gut. His hair was as black as Maria's but stubbled his scalp like sandpaper. He marched through our home, sniffing and shaking his head.

"There is some aroma," he said. "I personally like the scent. And anyway, there's no visible smoke in your home."

"Some aroma?" I sputtered. "Officer! The stink is everywhere! We can taste it!"

Maria's eyes glittered. "Officer," she said. "When we smell wood smoke, we're breathing toxins, whether we see smoke or not. The very young are especially vulnerable to harm from wood smoke pollution. We have a baby on the way. Please, Officer. Help us."

He sighed. "Ma'am, everything in life has its hazards. If you're both so worried about air pollution, you shouldn't be living so close to Chicago. Dirty air is a fact of life. In the larger scheme of things, a recreational wood fire is a very minor threat. So I advise the two of you to lighten up."

"Sir." I stepped close to the officer. He frowned. His hand drifted to the gun around his waist.

"Officer, I want to show you something."

I led him onto our deck. I pointed to the trees around the fireplace.

"See those sparks snapping out of the vents into the trees? See the wooden fence right behind the fireplace and trees? See how that fence goes right by this wood deck we're standing on? See how this wooden deck is attached to my wood-framed house?"

The cop sighed. "Your point?"

"My goddamn yard is full of wood chips! This is a goddamn path of combustibility! That goddamn smokestack is closer to my house than anyone else's, including the smokestack's owners!"

The cop stepped back and gripped the gun holstered around his gut. "Calm down, sir."

The people next door had fallen silent. Only Dave Matthews kept singing.

I took a deep breath. Five years ago I might've shown this arrogant bastard exactly how I'd calm down. But I'm not that way anymore.

"I'm worried about the safety of my home, my pregnant wife. A spark ignites the trees. The burning trees spread fire to the fence which -"

He held up his hand. "Okay. Okay. I'll go next door and talk with those folks."

I stayed on the deck while the officer headed to my neighbor's yard. A moment later, I heard the cop call out to my neighbor, "Hey, Uncle Steve! Howya doin'?"

"Want a cold one, Officer?" someone asked.

"I'll have a pop, a diet cola, if you got one."

Something plunged from my throat to my gut, like sour milk.

"So much for trying to do it the effing right way," I muttered.

I wanted to smash something now. I needed to.

Instead, I went inside my house. I got a brand new dust mask off my basement work bench. Maria tied it around her face. The cop returned. He shook his head when he saw Maria wearing the mask. He told us not to worry because the village zoning department had approved the fireplace. It was all perfectly legal. It was all perfectly safe.

He smiled and rested his hand on his holstered gun. "Like I said, you two. Stressing out over a little campfire can't be doing you or your future bambino any good."

"Bambino?" Maria repeated. Her voice shook. Her hands trembled.

The cop smiled and patted his swollen gut.

Then he left.

Steve's dragon burned all night.

The next day, Maria packed a suitcase, and I drove her to her parents' apartment in the city.

That night, I sat on our deck, breathing wood smoke and watching sparks snap into the tree branches between the beast and the fence. A goddamn path of combustibility.

Sparks landed on the fence. They fizzed out. My face relaxed into a smile.

A little encouragement, that's all it would take. I could see the headlines: ASSHOLE'S BACKYARD FIREPLACE TRIGGERS FIRE, DESTROYING INNOCENT NEIGHBOR'S HOME.

I went back inside and called Maria at her parents'. We talked for a long time.

"It's an assault, is what it is," I said to her. "We're being assaulted by poisoned air."

"Couldn't we go back to the seller?" she asked. "Maybe we could sue or something for failure to disclose a defect?"

"Maybe our little flight attendant seller who traveled a lot wasn't home often enough to be bothered. Or maybe she liked the smell, just like Officer Asshole last night. And anyway, that wouldn't be a quick solution. Or cheap. Or even guaranteed."

"As long as we're stuck downwind from that chronic wood burner, our house is not safe," Maria said. "But it would be wrong to sell it to anyone else without telling them the problem."

"We can't live like this, Maria. That's why I want to do what that cop advised."

"Nomar, what do you mean?"

"Lighten up, the cop said." I waited. I could hear Maria breathing.

"I'll coax a fire," I explained. "From the dragon's sparks in the trees, to the fence, to our deck." My voice shook. "Maybe our house."

She gasped.

"No one will get hurt, Maria. I promise. You'll be at your mom's. We have insurance. Anyway, he'll be liable. His insurance will have to pay."

For a long moment, I heard only soft breathing.

Then, "Nomar, let's invite them over. I'll cook enchiladas. You can make your wonderful margaritas. We'll get to know them. They'll get to know us."

"No! You haven't gone face-to-face with that guy, Maria. Trust me. He's a jerk. He's a bully. He's an asshole. I can't welcome him into our home. I grew up with people like him. For a bully, being nice is being weak. Bullies trample nice people."

She started to cry. My heart stopped.

"No, honey, stop. I'm sorry. Oh my god. Please. Don't cry. Okay. I'll do it. For you. If that's what you want." But even as I said the words, I wondered if I could. It would kill me to make nice with that asshole. It would take something out of me. The thing that made me, me.

And Maria knew it.

She groaned. "Nomar. No. You do what you think is right."

The phone suddenly crackled, like fire devouring wood.

Adrenaline flooded my body. My gut filled with buzzing bees.

"Love you," I whispered.

"When?" she whispered back. "When will you do it?"

"The next time the dragon burns," I promised.

---

The dragon burned the next night. I was ready. I had a lighter stick. I watched the snapping sparks. I waited for the right time to launch the flame.

---

Afterwards, I didn't phone Maria. I waited a day, then drove to her parents' home in the Back of the Yards.

Her parents were out. Her grandma was napping in the bedroom next to the kitchen.

We sat across from each other at her mom's square kitchen table, Maria's Bible in front of her, opened to Timothy. A few lines were highlighted in yellow. Jesus gazed impassively at us from a framed painting on the wall, his forehead veined with blood from the crown of thorns circling his head.

I reached across the table and placed my hand atop Maria's. "You know," I murmured, "there's all kinds of paths of combustibility. I got off the dark path when I met you, Maria."

She pulled her hand away from mine. She looked past me. I wondered if she was gazing at the stoic, bloody Jesus on the wall over our heads. "I support whatever you've done, Nomar. You have my blessing." Tears streaked her cheeks. "There's a passage in the Bible, Timothy 5:8, that I've been reading over and over. Whatever you've done, Nomar, I accept."

I reached into the pocket of my jeans, pulled out a folded piece of paper, slid it across the table to Maria.

"They RSVPed," I said.

Her dark eyebrows pinched in a puzzled frown. She unfolded the paper, read aloud: We'll come over, amigo. But I got every right to do what I want on my property. You and your senorita got to accept that.

Maria refolded the paper. She lifted her gaze, but not to me. I knew she was looking at the bleeding Jesus on the wall behind me.

"I didn't burn anything, Maria. I dropped an invite in their mailbox yesterday. They dropped their answer in ours today." I pointed at the folded piece of paper.

"So, I'll make my margaritas. You'll make your enchiladas. Saturday."

Her lips trembled.

"Saturday," I repeated. "They're coming over."

I reached across the table and took her hand again. She didn't pull it away. She looked straight into my eyes. Frowned.

"Thank you," I said, "for being willing to go low with me. But I got off that low path when I fell in love with you, Maria. And not even a wood-burning dragon is powerful enough to make me drag you down that path. We're gonna try to solve this problem the right way. Your way. We'll show them our hospitality. Hope for the best."

She said nothing. The red clock on the refrigerator ticked. Outside a kid shouted. A dog barked. I could hear her grandma's soft snoring from behind the closed bedroom door.

Suddenly, Maria pulled her hand from mine. Grabbed the folded paper. Crumpled it. Stood and seemed to float to the stove. She turned on a burner. Dropped the paper into the blue and yellow flames.

We both watched it burn.

She looked at me. Her smile showed teeth. "Okay," she said. "Enchiladas it is. But my bruja is gonna help me make theirs extra special."

I felt blood heat my face. Maria had never ever called her grandma bruja. "Extra special, Maria?"

She pointed at the open Bible on the table. "Take a look at what I highlighted in yellow."

I pulled the Bible toward me. Read aloud.

"If anyone does not provide for their own, and especially for those in their own household, they have denied the faith and are worse than unbelievers."

I lifted my gaze from the words to my good, beautiful wife. Her arms were crossed protectively over her belly. She was just starting to show. Our baby. She had to protect our baby. And I had to protect them both.

"I'm not a believer like you are, Maria."

"I accept that, Nomar."

"This Bible bit I just read. It's saying God helps those who help themselves. It's giving us a moral right to provide for our own, to do what we need to do to for smoke-free air. Right?"

She nodded

"It's a dark path, Maria."

She shrugged.

I sighed. "One condition."

She blinked.

"You have to let me help your..." I took a deep breath... "our bruja make their enchiladas... extra special."

She smiled.