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February 03, 2025

The Firewalkers' Son

By David Henson

Stanley tells himself he’s not a monster. Some people might consider what he does monstrous, but to him, it’s preservation of beauty. Remembrance. Lorabelle is beautiful. He’s seen that much from her photos on the dating app. But does she have the special beauty he needs this for this remembrance?

He positions himself at a table so he can see when Lorabelle arrives for their first in-person encounter. The cafe hums with jabber and clinking cups, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingling with his excitement. His fingers tap the table to the rhythm of his thumping heart.

His gaze sharpens as Lorabelle approaches. Long, wavy brown hair, big eyes. Nice, but he couldn’t care less. Although her legs are toned and tan, the view stops after teasing him with the curve of her ankles.

Stanley rises. “Good to meet you for real, Lorabelle. I’m Milo.”

“Same here, Milo.” Stanley sees she has nice hands. A good sign, but he’s been fooled before. One of his best had short, stubby fingers.

They’d trudged through the usual chatting online — movies, TV shows, books. She enjoys mystery novels and loves her job at the library. He likes being a handyman because he’s his own boss, and even has customers in several states. Trudge trudge trudge. He wonders how long before she tries to go beyond scratching the surface. Cautioning himself to be on guard, he wiggles his toes in his sandals.

“I was afraid I might be late. Needed to run a few errands for my mother. She’s … disabled.” Lorabelle stares at Stanley. “Milo, are you close to your family?”

Prying already, Stanley thinks. “My stepfather is deceased. Never knew my dad. I don’t have much contact with my mother. She’s pretty busy.”

Lorabelle puts her lips around the biscotti and slides it back and forth. Is she trying to be sexy? Stanley wonders. If so, she’s going about it the wrong way.

Lorabelle pulls the biscotti slowly out of her mouth, licks her lips and bites it in half. “What does your mother do?”

Stanley wonders whether to tell the truth. He decides doing so will do no harm and should pique Lorabelle’s interest, draw her in. “Mom’s a firewalking instructor.”

Lorabelle sips her coffee and nods.

“She teaches firewalking to help people achieve” — he makes air quotes with his fingers — “life-changing confidence and personal empowerment. She started firewalking to help herself recover when my stepdad croaked … uh, passed.” That’s a good lie, Stanley thinks, because it plays with the timeline. Just in case.

Lorabelle crunches her biscotti. “Life changing. Hmmm … Sounds like marketing.”

Who’s she to judge? Stanley wonders. “I assure you firewalking is quite a moving experience,” he says, then tells himself to smooth the edge from his voice. “I’ve firewalked many times myself. Mom even includes a Blessing of the Feet.”

Lorabelle arcs an eyebrow. “Do you go to her sessions?”

Stanley frowns. “As I said, we’ve lost touch. I did as a boy, though.”

Stanley flashes back to when he was little, sitting cross-legged on the beach under a star-splashed sky, watching people remove their shoes and socks. He’d scoot closer as his mom knelt by each person and chanted the Blessing of the Feet. Feet are the foundation of our being. Feet connect us to the earth. May these feet be protected from harm. May these feet be a source of strength and inspiration. Bless these feet. Stanley was especially drawn to women’s feet. Once he tried to touch a lady’s long, slender toes, but his mother slapped his hand.

The men, women and, though against the law, even children not much older than Stanley, would stride down the path of fiery embers, the air shimmering. Stanley was amazed by the way the feet seemed to glow from the inside and shield people from the flames. His stepdad, from whom Stanley kept his distance, repeated the Blessing and poured water over the ash-covered feet of each person when they stepped clear of the flames.

After Lorabelle and Stanley finish their coffees, they take a walk on the beach. It’s a sunny day with puffy clouds and small waves. Seagulls cry. A breeze carries the smell of brine and dead fish. Lorabelle waves her hand toward the ocean. “Makes you feel small and insignificant, doesn’t it.”

Too serious, Stanley thinks. He kicks off his sandals and wears them on his hands to lighten the mood. Besides, acting goofy makes him seem harmless. “Take your shoes off, Lorabelle.”

“I just had a pedicure.” She spurts ahead and cartwheels, her white tennis shoes flashing in the sunlight.

Stanley wonders if she’s teasing him.

“Doesn’t the sand burn your feet?” Lorabelle says.

“You forget my lineage,” Stanley says, smiling to hide his disappointment. “Besides, the wet sand’s cool.”

They amble on in silence until Lorabelle says “Have you ever done that?”

“I … what?”

“You like to look down, don’t you.” She points up.

“No, I’ve never parasailed. Would you like to try it now?” You’ll have to take off your shoes, he thinks.

Lorabelle shudders. “Maybe some other time. Like in a hundred years when I’ve outgrown my fear of heights.”

They walk for a few more minutes until Lorabelle says she needs to run errands for her mother. When she agrees to see Stanley again, he suggests a swim-date. She says she’d prefer a picnic. He decides to not push it. Yet. They make plans to meet in one of the local parks.

That night, his disappointment dueling with anticipation of his next chance, Stanley drives to an ocean overlook where the vomit of city lights doesn’t pollute the sky. The stars are dizzying. He gets out of his car, climbs onto the hood and locates Cassiopeia. “Your feet are wondrous,” he whispers to the constellation. “The stars, galaxies and nebulas …” Stanley notices silhouettes of people walking on the beach and begins to shout. “Don’t you see? Feet everywhere. Fiery and glowing, an endless universe of feet.” He kneels, bows his head and recites the Blessing. Feet are the foundation of our being … Bless these feet.

* * *

Stanley and Lorabelle meet at Edgewood Park. It’s a small area with a fountain, a handful of wooden tables and grills, maple trees and a grassy area. Zebra longwing butterflies flutter amongst the sea grapes.

The couple spreads a blanket on the ground. Stanley removes his sandals and wiggles his toes. Lorabelle is wearing her damn sneakers again. “You should take off your shoes, Lorabelle. Feels good.”

He pours wine into a paper cup and starts to give it to her.

She holds up her hand like a cop stopping traffic. “I need to tell you something, Milo. I’m a recovering alcoholic. Hope that’s not a problem for you. I broke up with an asshole and spiraled downward. But I’ve been sober going on two years. Call me Lorabelle.”

Stanley sets the cup of wine on the ground beside him. “Not a problem.” He blinks the anger out of his eyes. He might have to go through with this sight unseen. He’s never put so much effort into one before. Usually he doesn’t even know them, let alone have online and in-person dates. But the next is not only number five but his fifth anniversary. She’s worth the extra effort. And risk.

“Maybe I’ll call you Cassiopeia.”

Lorabelle punches her eyebrows together and hands Stanley a cheese sandwich and small plastic container of chips she brought. “Why on earth would you do that, Milo?”

“Cassiopeia is my favorite constellation. Plus, I think you’re heavenly.”

Lorabelle snorts. “Bet I’m not the first one you’ve used that line on … Let’s stick with Lorabelle.”

As they eat their lunch, Lorabelle unties her sneakers but doesn’t remove them.

Go on, Stanley thinks, then repeats the words aloud.

“Sorry?” Lorabelle removes her shoes and slides a finger under a sock. Stanley can hardly breathe. She pulls up the sock.

Stanley considers yanking off her socks himself, but there are people around, and he’s afraid she’ll make a scene.

After they finish their lunch, Stanley and Lorabelle lie back and stare up at the sky, blue with puffy white clouds. “I see an alligator in that one,” Lorabelle says.

Stanley sees something else.

Leaving the park, the two make arrangements to have dinner at Stanley’s place the following week. Third date, Stanley thinks. Do or die. He has to squish his lips together to keep from laughing out loud.

* * *

The evening before the big night, Stanley goes into the remembrance room in the family cottage outside town. He’s lived there alone since his mother and stepdad moved into a place closer to the beach. Even though the nearest neighbor is nearly a mile away, Stanley has nailed soundproofing to the walls. He’s installed a trap door directly over a large vat in the basement. The room smells musty from being shut up most of the time. He’s honed his technique over the years and avoided suspicion through a combination of meticulous planning and luck.

His hand trembles with excitement as he runs his fingertips down the the row of glass jars on the shelf. Four not counting his stepfather, whom he considers a special circumstance. He’ll try to make Lorabelle understand what an honor it is to be number five.

The remembrance room was his room as a boy. He recalls how he’d crawl under the bed when he heard the floorboards squeak outside his door. As steps approached, he watched for the feet. If his mother’s appeared — relief. If his stepfather’s— terror.

Staring at his stepfather’s jar, Stanley regrets that the only pain the man felt was the initial jab in the back of his neck.

Stanley happened to be at the firewalk that lit the chain of events a couple years ago. An older woman whose husband had died was making her first firewalk. She seemed more frightened than most novices but was determined to go through with it because she’d bought into the spiel about firewalking being the path to confidence and personal empowerment.

Stanley remembers almost feeling sorry for her. He knew his mother and stepfather had scammed her into investing her life savings in their phony plans to franchise their firewalking enterprise across the country. They even threw in a lifetime pass of firewalking and an enhanced Blessing of the Feet.

Halfway down the path of flames, the woman had stumbled and fallen. She might’ve died if someone hadn’t plunged screaming into the fire and rescued her.

The stepfather blamed Stanley’s mother because he blamed her whenever anything went wrong. He was furious because he feared the accident would attract the authorities, who would discover the scam.

Later that night, Stanley’s mother sought refuge with her son at his cottage. Stanley never had seen her battered so badly before. He was practically gleeful when his stepfather arrived a few minutes later, stumbling and with bloodshot eyes, to “finish up the job.”

By dawn the next morning, all that was left of the stepfather floated in the glass jar Stanley peers into now. … His mother had insisted on taking the remembrance herself. Stanley chuckles at the jagged cut. It reminds him of his first; he used a mitre saw instead of the surgical blade he has now. He’s proud of how far he’s come in five years.

His mother has been hiding out in Rio since they took care of her husband. Stanley thinks one of these days he’ll visit her and take his passion international.

* * *

“Welcome to my lair.”

Lorabelle grins. “How do you know I’m not the spider, and you’re the fly?” she says, entering. Her hair back in a ponytail, she’s wearing a blue backpack. And those damn sneakers again. But Stanley’s prepared.

She goes to the couch and puts the backpack on her lap. She unzips the pack just enough to reach inside and pull out a wine bottle. “Hope you like Merlot.”

Stanley takes the wine. “You didn’t need to do that.” He sees the bottle is half empty.

“That’s the last drink I had before getting sober. I kept it to remind me of the pain drinking caused. I brought it because I think this is going to be a special night.”

If you only knew, Stanley thinks. “Sorry it’s so warm in here,” he says. “My air conditioner is on the fritz.”

Lorabelle fans herself with her hand.

Stanley nods at his bare feet. “You’d be surprised how much cooler you’ll feel.”

“That’s OK.” She goes to the couch and sits cross-legged, her backpack on her lap. “Something smells good.”

The vegetable lasagna Stanley has in the oven is the last thing on his mind at the moment although he knows he’ll be starved later. This always makes him ravenous. “It’ll be a few minutes yet. I want to show you something first.” He holds out his hand.

Lorabelle sticks out her lower lip. “Aren’t you going to drink my wine?”

“What difference does… okay, fine.” He puts the bottle to his lips and drinks most of it. “Yech … I have say red wine isn’t for me.” He grabs Lorabelle’s arm and pulls her down the hallway. She looks over her shoulder at her backpack, which has fallen to the floor. “You won’t need that,” Stanley says.

Stanley creaks open the door to the remembrance room. “After you, my pretty.” Once they’re inside, he locks the door and flips on the spotlights that illuminate the jars on the shelf. They sparkle and reflect slashes of light throughout the dim room.

Stanley watches as Lorabelle's gaze locks onto the jars. He can see her eyes widen. His breath catches in his throat, and his pulse quickens. He creeps toward her as if she’s a doe he doesn’t want to frighten from his back yard.

“What is all this?” Lorabelle goes to the shelf of glass jars, puts her hand to her mouth and retches.

“I’m very organized,” Stanley says, pointing out that each jar is labeled with a number and date, except for one that has only formaldehyde. The jar that’s labeled Number 5 and boasts today’s date.

Lorabelle rushes to the door. Finding it locked, she pounds on it and screams for help.

“Each jar holds a memory, a remembrance.” He feels sweat beading on his forehead. He needs to crank up the air conditioner when this is over.

Lorabelle, her face ashen, turns toward Stanley. "Remembrance of what?"

"My fulfillment.” Stanley studies Lorabelle to see if she recognizes the significance of his collection, of the moment. He blinks the stinging from his eyes.

“You’re sick.”

Stanley shakes his head. They never understand. His ears ringing, he stumbles to the bookshelf, chanting. “Feet are the foundation of our being. Feet connect us to the earth. May these feet … May these feet …” The words fuzz in Stanley’s thoughts. He reaches down and picks up a bone saw. “This is for you, my Cassiopeia … my...” He leans against the shelf to steady himself as he waves the saw.

“About time,” Lorabelle says, her voice steady. “You wouldn’t have gotten away with it anyway. My mother knows your name. Our online chats … your computer …”

Her calm surprises Stanley. “I always get away with it,” he says, ears ringing. He fights to keep his eyes open. “Do you think Milo is … my … real name? Have you never used a … a … library computer?” Stanley wobbles to the center of the room and lifts a trap door. The smell of hydrochloric acid wafts into the room. He takes from his pocket a syringe filled with bright green fluid, throws back his head, and roars with laughter. Then he blacks out.

* * *

Stanley awakens lying on the floor on his side, his hands behind him, his wrists and ankles bound, a tennis ball jammed in his mouth. Lorabelle looms over him, her open backpack at her feet. She’s dribbling what’s left of the wine on him. “A special vintage, Stanley Rogers. I’ve been looking for you. Even hired a private investigator. Well, mainly I was looking for your bitch mother and her husband, but they seem to have disappeared so I decided you’ll have to do.

“You’ve been wanting to see my feet,” she says. “Feast your sick eyes on these.” Lorabelle stands on one foot then the other to remove her shoes and socks.

Stanley chokes back a gasp when he sees her scarred feet. The fourth toe is missing on the left. The two middle ones seem to be melted together on the right. Not what he thought his fifth remembrance would be, but what could be more special, more deserving? He starts working to free his wrists.

“Disgusted?” Lorabelle says.

Stanley tries to speak but the tennis ball stifles him.

“You don’t need to talk, Stanley Rogers. You need to listen. I want you to know why this is happening.” Lorabelle squats down and leans her face close to his. “Cancer took Dad three years ago.” She smirks. “Flaming embers in his lungs. After my father died, my mom was lost. She didn’t even know how to balance a checkbook or pump her own gas.” Lorabelle sighs. “Dad thought he was doing the right thing taking care of all those things. When Mom told me she’d seen an ad about firewalking, I didn’t discourage her. I didn't think it would be ‘life changing,’ but I hoped it would give her more confidence to go on without Dad.”

Stanley thoughts race ahead, the pieces falling into place like a puzzle he’s afraid to solve. He feels a little slack in the bindings around his wrists.

“Tell me, Stanley Rogers, did you help swindle my mother out of her life savings?” Lorabelle says, her voice trembling and eyes glistening.

He shakes his head furiously from side to side, slobber drooling around the tennis ball.

“Liar,” Lorabelle says then goes on to describe how she was there the night of her mother’s firewalk, how she jumped in and pulled her mom out when she fell into the fire. “Now Mom’s face is …” Lorabelle gags “… and her hands had to be amputated. Mom was still in the burn unit when I learned about her savings.”

Lorabelle lowers her clenched fist to Stanley’s face. He sees her knuckles whiten, and when she relaxes her hand, he can see where her fingers dug into her palm.

“If I hadn’t been drunk most of the time, I might’ve prevented the whole mess.” Lorabelle begins speaking faster and louder, like a freight train careening down mountain tracks. “I’m so eaten up with guilt, I’ve given up my own life to take care of Mom,” she says, spittle foaming at the corners of her mouth.

Stanley recognizes the look in her eyes. He saw it in his stepfather’s. He saw it in his mother’s the night she demanded the bone saw. He’s seen it in the mirror countless times.

Stanley’s right hand is almost free. Needing to buy a little more time, he manages to shove the tennis ball out his mouth with his tongue.

“You won’t get away with it,” he says, coughing and sputtering. Lorabelle jams the tennis ball back into his mouth. When he continues screaming with his eyes, she giggles.

“Do you think Lorabelle is my real name, Stanley Rogers? Have you never heard of using a computer at the library?” She removes a butcher knife from the backpack. “I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to go through with it.” She picks up the syringe. “But this makes it easier.” She waves her hand at the row of glass jars. “Now I see I’ll be doing the world a favor. You’re a monster, and you’re going to pay.” She walks to the trap door and breathes in. “I love the smell of hydrochloride acid in the evening.”

His hand almost loose, Stanley begins writhing toward the door. Lorabelle hurries to him and presses his head to the floor with her bare foot. He becomes lost in the fragrance of her sole, the touch of her toes on his cheek. He’d smile if it weren’t for the tennis ball jammed in his mouth. He weeps tears of joy.

“Cry, pervert. That won’t save you.”

Lorabelle’s threat snaps him out of it. He yanks his right hand free just as he feels the needle jab his neck.

* * *

Lorabelle wakes up lying on the floor. It wasn’t the sawing through bone. It wasn’t the blood. It was the hissing, fizzing and popping that made her pass out. She stands and steadies herself.

After closing the trap door, she goes to the jar of formaldehyde intended for her and traces her finger around the rim. Then Lorabelle plops in the remembrance of Stanley.








Article © David Henson. All rights reserved.
Published on 2025-01-27
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