The flame continues its slow march toward my pinched fingers, leaving a black, mangled shape in its path.
Every night, I remember that night. Going into the kitchen. Looking to light a cigarette off the pilot on the stove before scurrying through the back door. One more smoke before ending my rounds, then heading to the second-floor bathroom for a scrub, followed by the bottle of mouthwash I kept in my office, which I would swallow since there was no place in there to spit it out.
Then Mena. Who despite all that would still know I smoked. And she’d give me that little shake of her head and say, “My love, what about your beautiful lungs?”
There’s a knock at the door but I’m lost in it now. It’s not a slip. It doesn’t need to be. I remember it more vividly than I remember my own name.
Leaning over the range, tipping the cigarette toward the blue flame.
I feel the warmth of the flame on my fingers. Not much untouched wood left.
The stove flame snuffing out, and me thinking, there must be some kind of shutoff. I’m sure it’ll be fine. And then going and having my smoke and hustling off to something else. Not even bothering to ask Ruby, or let Mbaye know, even though I should have. Because minor shit like that tended to work itself out, and I was more worried about getting to Mena, and making sure no one knew I was sneaking cigarettes inside.
There’s a knock at the door.
It was me.
I’m the one who did it.
Two people I’ve killed now.
The flame reaches my fingers. Singeing my flesh. I hold it there, feel the pain travel through my arm, up my body. Overwhelm me. I close my eyes and clench my teeth. Take all the pain I can, because I deserve it.
The door opens, and it’s Mbaye.
I throw the match, stick my fingers in my mouth, then lean forward and land on my knees, hands spread, palms up.
“It was me,” I tell him, choking out the words.
He’s holding a plate of food, his eyebrow arched in confusion.
“It was me. I did it.”
He crosses the room slowly and puts the plate down on the floor next to us. It’s a bowl of the thieboudienne. My favorite dish. And that makes my heart wrench all the harder. Because he’s kneeling there, looking at me, with my favorite meal that he cooked for me, and I lose it. How could he do this to me? I fall into him, sobbing. Burying my face in the hard muscle of his shoulder. He wraps his arms around me, unsure of what’s happening.
That he would even do this for me makes me sick.
So I tell him everything.
That I accidentally blew out the pilot light. That it must have been me who created the gas leak. That it was me who killed Mena. That I was sorry. These are the words I think I’m saying but frankly I will be impressed if he understands any of them because they’re just coming out in a jumbled mess of snot, coughing, and tears.
And this man, who I have hurt, who I have let carry the burden of Mena’s death, he leans back from me and puts his thumb under my chin, tilting my eyes up to his. And he does the worst possible thing he could do in this moment.
He smiles.
His eyes well with tears as he says, “I would like to tell you a story.”
That calms me because it’s so unexpected. My brain just completely resets.
“Sit back,” he says. “Let me tell you this story.”
I fall back against the wall, and he sits down, legs crossed, and puts his hands on his knees, sitting in lotus position. He takes a deep breath.
“There once were two monks,” he says. “A young monk, and an old monk. They were walking somewhere far away. And they came across a river, where they found a woman.” He holds out his hands, palms up. “And the woman said, please will you help me across? The water is too deep. The young monk said”—he shakes his finger—“it is against our vows to touch women, I am sorry. But the older monk…” Mbaye offers his hands. “He took the woman and put her on his shoulders, and carried her across the water.”
I’m about to say something about how I don’t miss being told things in riddle format, when I realize that is not constructive.
God, even now I can’t help myself.
“So,” Mbaye says, pressing his hands together in prayer, “they get to the other side, and the older monk sets the woman down, and they continue on their journey. The younger monk, he is upset. The older monk broke his vow. There is a tension in the air between them. Until finally, later in their journey, the young monk asks, ‘Why did you touch that woman, when it was not allowed?’ And do you know what the older monk said?”
“What?” I ask.
“The older monk said, ‘I set her down hours ago, so why are you still carrying her?’?”
He sits back and waits.
I ask, “Mena tell you that?”
He smiles. “Of course she did.” Then he leans forward. “We don’t know what caused the gas leak. It was an accident. We just have to accept it.”
“Why?” I ask, holding the words down, and it feels like I’m wrestling something trying to tear its way out of my chest. “Why do we have to accept it?”
He pauses, puts his hand on my knee. “What else can we do?”
“We could change it. If we wanted.”
“You know we can’t.”
I am suddenly washed with such an intense and bracing wave of shame it makes me want to vomit. I have tortured this man. Publicly humiliated him. All for what. To make myself feel better? To share the burden of how I felt, so it would be lighter on me? I struggle to breathe. The words that I owe him.
“You should hate me,” I say, looking down and away from him, wanting to disappear into a crack in the wall. “I almost wish you did.”
He doesn’t respond for long enough that I have to look at him, and when I do, he’s smiling again. He gets onto his knees and takes me under my arms, pulling me into the firmest hug I have ever felt.
“I forgive you,” he says, and the words make me go limp.
“Why?” I manage to ask.
“Because it’s what Mena would have wanted,” he says, his breath warm on my neck. “Because it’s right. For you as much as it is for me.”
That takes me apart, and I get lost in the fold of his neck, sobbing until I’ve got nothing left.
And when I’m able to regain my composure, I tell him, “Something really bad is going on, and people are going to die.”
Mbaye leans back and looks me in the eye and says, “Tell me what you need.”
My heart soars. A sensation that is incredibly unfamiliar, and therefore somewhat uncomfortable, but also very, very welcome.
“Okay, you are smiling now,” Mbaye says, patting my back. “Cut it out before someone sees you.”
“I need to get out of here,” I tell him.
“Hold on,” he says.
He crosses to the door and looks out the little window, surveying the office. “Danbridge is still here.”
“Okay, well, you can’t hang out in here all day, so…” I pick up one of the matches. “You walk out now, I’ll put this in to keep the lock from engaging, and you try to get him to leave. Easy enough?”
“Easy enough.”