He lives in the cupboard. He comes out when mother cooks on the gas stove. My mother is always fully engaged in conversation with whatever she is cooking. A stranger might think she is talking to me, as she is using my name. But she never looks at me, and she doesn’t wait for me to respond.
“Nobody could have known, could they, Grace?” she says. “As long as it doesn’t happen again, Grace.”
“Your father will be upset if you let him down, Grace.”
She looks at the fried eggs the whole time. Her voice flows over me, as the little figure climbs up the tea-towel, and runs along the countertop. He somersaults into the sink full of water. Makes faces at my mother. Imitates her cooking eggs. He knows he went too far.
The kitchen is painted what my mother calls a “cheerful yellow.” I think it’s like being trapped inside the yolk of an egg. Flypaper with black fly corpses, like sprinkles of pepper. The little figure is made out of matchsticks, if you’re wondering. A red head and a skinny body. One snapped stick for arms, one for legs. He doesn’t have a name (he’s not the sort of friend you call. More the sort that turns up and then something goes wrong).
I smell smoke. I’ll have a bath. Matchstick man won’t follow me. He doesn’t like water. He’s climbing up my mother’s back and I wonder if he’s doing it to cheer me up, or if he just likes having an audience. He might not be my friend at all.
If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t have set the church on fire.I wasn’t trying to burn it down, I was playing with matchstick man. I’d never heard him so happy as he stood on my shoulder, watching the flames.
There have been lots of fires.
“A vessel for evil,” is what the priest called me. Mother gave out to him. I’d done wrong, but she stood up for me.
Matchstick man is making fun of her. I don’t like it.
Where did he go? Take your eyes off him for a minute…. Everything looks okay. Ma had turned off the cooker, and the toaster is unplugged. I get up to lay the table and check in his cupboard. He’s not there. I feel a tiny movement on my back. I turn to look around at Da, who doesn’t do much except sit and stare since the accident. Too much smoke. The doctors said his brain is damaged. He’s staring at me. Or rather, he’s staring at a spot just over my shoulder. When Ma has sat down and the clatter of plates has finished, I can hear heavy breathing from my shoulder.
A lot of fires we’ve had around here.
Da’s eyes are bright.
