Sonar
Gail sat on the porch, stroking Sonar. He alone had survived the house-fire that had claimed her sister’s life on this same day three years ago. If only cats could talk, thought Gail, nuzzling Sonar just before he jumped into the night.
“Come back!” she called.
Leaves rustled as the neighbor boy emerged from the darkness. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the glowing embers of which turned in her direction. “Witch!”
She glared at him and entered her house. Sonar would return when hunger struck. She lay on the couch. Today also happened to be her wedding anniversary, though Steve would be working late. She drifted off, and from within the splintered fragments of her mind, a voice spoke. “The time draws near.”
“What time?” Gail asked.
“Seven o’clock.”
“Huh?” She opened her eyes. Steve was standing over her.
“Listen, Gail,” he was saying, “I found him that way on the road.”
The smell of perfume emanated from his clothes. She sniffed the air.
“Gail, are you listening? Your cat is in my car.”
She ran and flung open the passenger side door. Sonar lay broken and mangled on the floor. She hugged him, crying into his soft, black fur.
“I’m sorry.” Steve spoke from behind.
Gail turned.
“And… happy anniversary. I would have bought you flowers, but…” He shrugged.
She went to her bedroom and slammed the door, listening as Steve sweet-talked his girlfriend on the phone. She pictured their twisted bodies sweating in bed together, as hundreds of votives reflecting their deception erupted in an inferno. Gail rolled her head back and cackled.
Steve knocked. “Gail? You okay?”
She spoke through the door. “Who were you talking to?”
He cleared his throat. “No one. You know, I can buy you a new cat.”
She thought of death: white, faceless, blank. “Forget it.”
Silence echoed before his footfalls pattered away.
She lay back and an orange orb descended. “The time has come.”
She stood and fetched a canister from the closet before gliding across the lawn and splashing kerosene on the neighbor’s house. She lit a match and threw it. Flames erupted. The neighbor boy flung open a window: “Witch!”
His lips cracked open and blood flowed over his white t-shirt. She padded away, ignoring his screams. She set fire to her own garage and watched as Steve’s car burst into flames that spread to the house. She pictured him, snuggled up in the bed they’d never shared together, dreaming of his concubine.
“Burn, baby, burn!” she hissed.
His stricken face appeared in the window; comprehension dawned: “You witch!”
Her eyes were hollow as her lips parted to mouth three words: “Happy anniversary, Steve!”
Flames licked her nightgown and she cackled. Sirens wailed.
“Whose houses are those?” a fireman asked the cluster of neighbors.
“That one belongs to the witch,” one of the neighbors answered.
“There ain’t no such thing as witches,” someone countered him.
He turned to see who’d spoken but no one was there. He turned back and the fireman was gone, as were the trucks. The house across the street still smoldered. Goose bumps rose on his flesh as a black cat brushed his legs. He bent down to stroke it and read its gold-plated nametag which glinted in the glow of the street-lamp. “Sonar! Strange!”
He picked up Sonar and entered his house, where the flames from the gas stove he’d left on had already spread to the lace curtains.
“Oh, crap!” He fanned the flames with his hands, dropping Sonar in the process. He waved frantically even as his cotton shirt ignited and seared his flesh. He turned in circles, screaming in a panicked frenzy.
Sonar purred softly and trod over burning embers to escape into the night. His gold nameplate tinkled, announcing his mission to anyone astute enough to figure out that “Sonar” is an anagram for “Arson.”