Better Than Starbucks!

Burn Scar

by Richard Risemberg

He stopped at a diner and asked a local how to get there. The GPS on his phone had led him into dead ends more than once, and he knew it would work even worse in a rural area with lots of hills and dirt roads. Anyway, the burn scar was in a meadow, off the road. It wasn’t a place to be mapped for the whole world to find. Not even after what had happened. It came and went on the news, and now it was forgotten. Except of course by those with a personal connection. That went without saying. But all of them were forgotten too. The proper ration of sympathy had been doled out, and now they were on their own.

The local, a beefy man in a plaid shirt who leaned on the counter of the diner, was not a bad sort. He spoke quietly, even when he was giving orders to the cook behind the metal partition. He spoke quietly to Sanford while he was giving him directions. “You go up the road across the way to just past the bridge over the creek. There’s a dirt road on the right. You can still see a bit of police tape on the fencepost. Go up that road till you come out of the first woods. That’s the place.” The local looked him in the eye, still gently. “There might be some kids there, looking for souvenirs. You know what I mean. Kinda ghoulish, but it’s how folks are.” Sanford nodded. Souvenirs . . .

Maybe the local thought he was a ghoul himself. He was sure that plenty of people had made the trek out of morbid curiosity. He kept his motivations to himself. He had nothing much left of himself to give away anymore anyway. He thanked the man and went back out to his car. When he came to a flat wooden bridge over a narrow creek, he saw the flutter of yellow tape. He turned right and went bumping up the dirt road. The car window was open, and he could hear the buzzing of a motorcycle somewhere in the distance. He hoped it wasn’t at the burn scar. The buzzing faded as he drove into the woods. When he came back out into full sun, he saw the meadow. The burn scar was obvious even from inside the car. A long black oval, big as a soccer field, in the middle of the meadow. The grass between the meadow and the road churned black by heavy tires. He stopped the car at a wide spot and got out. There was no one else around. The way it should be.

The turnout was covered with a thin layer of gravel that crunched under his boots as he walked. He walked along the edge of the turnout to where the grass had not been disturbed so much by the emergency vehicles and, eventually, the trucks that hauled away the debris. New grass was pushing up through the black moist mud of the tire tracks. Sanford squatted down and focused on one stalk of grass that twitched in the weak breeze. The sun warmed his scalp and neck as he stared at it. A fat beetle of some sort bumped clumsily past the stalk of grass and disappeared into a tangle of stems and roots in the direction of the burn scar. The entire meadow must be full of small lives again. Maybe not in the burn scar itself, where there was probably residue of the fuel. The fire had been spectacular on the television screens, when he could force himself to watch it. Sanford stood up — a little too quickly; he fought off a wave of dizziness. Beyond the burn scar, beyond the broad meadow, there were low hills covered with bright spring grass just beginning to yellow in the summer heat. Clusters of dark-leaved oak trees, the small ones of the dry country, blotched the rolling hills with shadow. Here and there the grass scarred by the tire tracks of motorcycles. The blue empty sky above it all. High in the air, impossibly small, a silver glint that was an airliner. He could barely hear the whooshing sound it made as it passed overhead. Such a long way to fall. He shook the thought out of his head and walked out into the meadow, into the center of the oval burn scar.

In the center of the burn scar the grass itself was still dead. No soft green shoots of new life there, just burned roots and scorched mud. And footprints. Maybe rescuers, though really there had been nothing to rescue. Footprints of people like himself, and probably the curious looking for “souvenirs.” He swiveled his head from side to side, taking in the landscape, the low hills on one side, the dirt road and the woods of the bottomland on the other. Peaceful, except for the buzzing sound of the motorcycle, which seemed to be coming nearer now. A crow flapped out of an oak tree and passed over him on its way to the woods by the creek. The buzzing of the motorcycle became an irregular snarl, then faded again, then became louder. Finally, a red-and-white dot appeared over one of the low hills, flew briefly into the air, and then bumped its way down the slope. He could see the rider standing on the foot pegs to control the bike’s descent. The rider was wearing a white helmet that hid his face. His cut-off t-shirt left his arms bare. He looked like a kid, a teenager. The kind who would root around the burn scar for souvenirs. Sanford tried to wish him away, but the kid seemed to be heading towards him. The buzzing of the two-stroke engine filled the sky. The kid rode up to the edge of the burn scar, then turned to work his way around it, riding slowly. When he got to the turnout, he cut the engine and leaned the bike on its side stand next to Sanford’s car. He gave the impression that he was waiting for Sanford to acknowledge him. Sanford nodded his head, and the kid took off his helmet.

The kid had the blonde mop usual for that part of the state. He arranged the helmet on the handlebars and swung himself off the bike. He was wearing heavy boots with straps along the side and the usual faded jeans. He began walking across the burn scar towards Sanford. His face looked neutral, not threatening. He swaggered a little as he walked. Typical teenager, thought Sanford. Well, he had been one too back in his day.

​

“Hey, mister,” the kid called. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“What for?” Sanford said. He realized he sounded a bit gruff. He hadn’t expected to have to talk out here.

“Making so much noise. You had someone on the plane, right?”

Sanford nodded.

“I can kinda tell. The way people stand. I didn’t know you were here.”

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​“It’s all right,” Sanford said. “I heard you riding away when I drove up. At least I guess it was you.”

“Must have been. I live over the hill, that way.” The kid pointed with his chin. “Where the county road loops round. I ride here a lot. Not too many people come up the dirt road. Except the folks who, you know . . .” Now they were both looking over the hills that the kid had ridden over. The grasses and dark oaks motionless in the dead air. The breeze had died away. “I saw it happen.”