Lisa kicked the end of the couch and I shook myself out of a daze. She was yelling, but sounded thick like cotton, not as loud as the TV across the room or the buzzing that came from God knows where. My wife leaned over me, wearing LSU sweat pants and a big T-shirt. Her hair fell in her eyes, and she tucked it behind her ears.

“What?” I said. Or maybe I yawned.

“Jerry, get up. It’s Kyle and Twila. Their house is on fire.”

I looked at my watch: eleven-o-five. The lights in the den were off, the TV still on Letterman’s show, and the curtains behind were open. Red light was flashing outside and the night sky looked too orange.

Great, I thought. He actually did it. I reached for the remote control on the coffee table. “Was it on the news?”

“No, it just happened. There’s cops and fire trucks out there.” Lisa pulled my hand, then let go. She left the room, chattering the whole way up the stairs.

I wiped sweat from my face when the knocking started. Quick hollow knocks on my front door, with a kid’s voice yelling along.

The Letterman audience was clapping, like they were applauding for the flashing sky outside, trying to drown out the knocking and tell me, “Good show. Let it burn. Don’t get up.” Then the kid found the doorbell.

I put on a bathrobe and flip-flops, stumbled to the front door, pulled it open. Marty Centerfield stood on my porch in white karate pajamas, jumping in place and holding a Polaroid camera. He was ten, a little guy who hid from the big kids but charged to do their spelling homework. He was one of my math students, not bad, but terrible at division. Hated fractions.

“Hey, come watch our house burn down.”

“Get someone to tape it for me.”

“Does this mean I don’t have to do my homework?”

“Do you ever do your homework?”

He smiled, said, “Thanks,” and ran down my driveway, past the Buick and onto the sidewalk.

I walked to the car to watch my neighbors run to see the fire, some carrying lawn chairs or binoculars. I already figured Kyle to be a crook. His family moved in six months ago, and I caught him going through my trash and checking my mail a couple of times. He was a hippie-redneck. Last week, I slept with his wife.

I was talking to my next door neighbor Mr. Beeming in the yard a couple mornings ago, and he said, “You know, Kyle took out a big insurance policy, covering fires and floods.”

“It never floods on this street.”

“But fires happen, understand?”

“How did you find all this out?”

Mr. Beeming tossed his keys in the air and caught them. “Maggie’s been talking to his wife, who let it slip about the insurance. I think she talks a bit too much.”

“You’re right,” I said. Twila was always talking. She talked to Lisa a lot, trying to be friendly, I guess. She would stop me walking home from work, the school was four blocks away, and make small talk. On the day we fucked, she was sunning on a lounge chair out front in a bikini, oiled up, practically throwing herself at me. She asked me to come inside, talk about Marty’s grades for a minute. What followed was ten minutes of wild loud lust with her on top. I felt miserable after, but still felt good, see?

The Centerfield’s house was right-diagonal across the street. A cop car stopped, blue lights flashing. I sneezed and almost fell over. Allergies. Steadying, I walked to the sidewalk, hoping the police had Kyle in handcuffs thrown against a wall. Twila, too.

Lisa came out of the front door with the garden hose draped around her neck. She saw my expression and said, “Shouldn’t we water our lawn, in case it spreads?”

Two yellow and green fire trucks pulled up, both with sirens screaming off rhythm, off pitch from one another. Firemen flowed off carrying hoses, axes, oxygen tanks.

As I got closer, a blast of heat hit me along with a rushing sound like a wave that made my skin itch. The smoke smelled like a barbecue grill, only more bitter. Marty walked around the crowd, kicking at the air with bad karate moves and taking pictures with his Polaroid. Clicking on the house. Clicking on his family. Clicking on me. “Hey, Mr. Gordon.”

Twila turned and tried to smile at me. Her curly blonde hair hung in a gather on her back, arms crossed on her stomach, hugging a thin pink bathrobe. She reached and took my arm as I got closer.

“Jerry, what are we going to do? Everything’s gone.” She rubbed her face against my shoulder, wiping off tears. I looked around for Kyle and pulled my arm free, patted her on the back.

“Not here. Kyle’s around, ain’t he?”

She touched my face. “You worry too much.”

I pushed her hand away and said, “What did this?”

“Don’t know. I think it was a gas leak. It just blew up, and we got out quick.”

Marty clicked his camera at us and came over to show off a picture of Mrs. Beeming in curlers and sunglasses.

“She said the fire hurts her eyes. She shouldn’t watch, then,” he said. “Hey, mom, we lost the computer, right?”

“No, it’s in storage.” Twila said.

“What about my new Reeboks?”

“I washed them. They’re on the clothesline.”

“Mom! I haven’t even worn them yet.” Marty waved his arms. His mother grabbed his shoulder and pulled him towards her, leaned down to whisper to him. Marty fought her, broke away and ran. Twila watched him, then shrugged and walked over to Lisa, who was in a windbreaker now.

Kyle stood watching his house burn, barefoot and shirtless in jeans. His long brown hair was messy on his shoulders. I walked up beside him to get a good look at the fire. The front side of the second story had already caved in, the roof falling in sections. Thick smoke and orange flames spilt from the windows as firemen ran out the front door, screaming about a hot water heater. Kyle’s toes were just past the police tape.

“Bad break, Kyle. Lucky you put so much in storage.”

His gaze shifted towards me. “We were painting. The bedrooms, the bathrooms.”

“I just cover the stuff up with sheets, paint one room at a time.”

Kyle smiled, rubbed his hands on his jeans. “Did you and Twila have a nice talk?”

“She’s sad about the house.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

The ground shook, and my ears vibrated without sound. It hurt, and I closed my eyes, bent over and held my knees. When I looked up again, a ball of bright yellow flame hovered above the house for a moment before smoke engulfed it.

“That was the water heater,” Kyle said.

I sneezed. Sneezed about ten times, a fit.

“Bless you,” Kyle said.

“You burned it down, didn’t you?” I said.

“It was a gas leak.”

“They can tell things like that, you know.”

“We’ll see. Hey, Twila tells me you guys had sex last week.”

“What kind of talk is that? You want to fight?””

“No, man, it’s not like that, see,” Kyle said. “Think of it like an audition. We were thinking, you know, maybe the four of us get together, have a good time, dinner, then all let loose some.”

“You’re nuts.”

“All I’m saying is, you looked good on the tape, knew what you were doing.”

“What tape?”

“We’ve got the bedroom wired, man. Got a collection of me and Twila, some other couples, a few babysitters. If you’re that good with Twila, I figure Lisa knows a thing or two. She get off much?”

I pressed my hand into his chest, put my face inches from his. “I ought to fucking slap you. You ever talk about my wife like that again—”

“Just ask her.”

“Not a chance. Give me the tape. How much you want for it?”

Kyle stepped back a couple steps. “Please, Jerry. Not so close.”

Lisa came over holding a plastic bucket half full of water, and told Kyle she was sorry. I didn’t like the way he smiled at her. She said we needed to talk a minute, so we stepped over behind a cop car and leaned against the trunk.

“They need a place to stay. I just talked to Twila, and they really don’t have anybody,” Lisa said.

“Motels.”

“They can’t spare that. They’d do it for us.”

If you only knew, I thought. “It’s midnight already.”

She set the bucket between her feet. “It’ll be fun. Twila said we could relax, you know? Put Marty to bed, then hang out, let loose some.” She grinned, started laughing.

“You’re not serious.”

“Why not? They’re nice. We need new friends.”

“Maybe. That’s fine. I won’t be good company, though.”

Back at the tape, before we even got a chance to say anything, Twila walked up to Kyle and tugged on a belt loop, about to panic. “Where’s the cat?”

Kyle tapped his foot and sucked his bottom lip. He said, “On the back porch last I saw.”

“But couldn’t he find his way over here?”

“He was in that carry kennel.”

Twila’s breath caught in her throat. She said, “Oh, Crankshaft. Go get him, Kyle.”

“That’s not smart. Our house is on fire.”

I gripped my fingers into fists. “You wanted to kill it?”

He shrugged. “Might as well. Ugly thing, anyway.”

Twila cried and Kyle said, “I’ll get you a new one. A baby one, a purebred.”

“I don’t want a new cat. Crankshaft was perfect.”

A cop told us to get back. Firemen complained that it was too much, that it would take another half-hour to put it out. Five cop cars now, and the Centerfields’ Chrysler parked on the street. I hadn’t seen it much before. They usually parked it in the garage.

Twila said, “Jerry, can you go get Crankshaft?”

“Wouldn’t that kill me?”

“I don’t know if the back is on fire.”

“Was this part of the plan?” I said.

“Hey,” Lisa said. “No, Jerry. That’s ridiculous.”

Kyle smiled at me. I said, “Can I talk to you a minute? Alone?”

We walked to my mailbox. He leaned closer, and I spoke directly into his ear.

“Here’s the deal. I get the cat, you give me that tape.”

Kyle shrugged. “Cat’s not worth that much.”

“You need a place to stay, right? Can you afford a motel?”

“The car’s fine.”

“I’m saying you get a clean room, a shower, a happy wife. I get the tape. Are you so dense? Is that too much to ask?” I said. The house was burning away, turning black, smoke twisting into the sky. “But I want the truth first. Did you set this fire?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Get the cat. Then I’ll tell the truth.”

I didn’t want to get the cat. No way. I thought, Go buy her a new cat, or a pony or zebra with the insurance money when all this is said, done, burned, and swept away. I looked back at Lisa. She was blank, waiting. Angry, maybe. She was worried about me, and I didn’t ever need to lose her.

I slipped under the police tape, around to the fence, and jumped the gate into Kyle’s backyard. The grass was high, like it hadn’t been mowed in a month. Past the rusted swing set and sandbox with a missing side, there was a clothesline hung loosely between metal T bars. A towel was draped over it, still stained, and Marty’s Reeboks hung by shoestrings tied together. But there were other pairs of shoes hung, too. And lots of clothes, not hanging but thrown over.

The burning wood smelled like sweet potatoes, and I saw the deck through shimmering waves. It wasn’t burning yet, looked half-finished and was surrounded by a garden of yellow rosebushes. The steps were on my side, but I had to walk past the inferno to get there.

I crawled beside the house under the smoke and a shower of water, ash, and mud. The firemen had a steady stream of ice water pouring out of a hole in what was left of the roof. The window I was under exploded and glass raked my back and neck. Flames shot out, roaring and whistling. I crawled faster.

Crankshaft was crying. I picked up the carry kennel by the handle, imagined for a moment chunking it into the house, telling Twila I was too late and enjoying the reaction. I was cold and wet, coughing and spitting. It was amazing how a little adrenaline and macho confidence could change one’s perspective. Five minutes before, I was willing to do anything in the world to save my marriage, but while standing there on the deck with Crankshaft, I thought otherwise.