Conflagration

"I'm telling you it was more than a dream," I said to my husband George as I poured him a second cup of breakfast coffee.

"It doesn't sound like a dream to me at all. Houses exploding and people getting burned to death.  It sounds more like a nightmare."

"Everything was so vivid and I remember it all. I'm still shaking, just thinking about it."

"Did you say that you recognized the house?"

"That's just it. It was the house next to ours from when I was a little girl. I remember the big oak tree and the maples and the gigantic yard."

"These were your neighbors that died?"

"Of course not. Mr. and Mrs. Sanders both passed away not long after we moved out of that neighborhood more than thirty years ago. I have no idea who moved in."

George began buttering a slice of toast and asked, "Did you actually see the whole place blow-up?"

"That's what's funny. It was like in a movie. I could see the leaky gas connection to the furnace and the sparking of the electrical wires. Then I saw the flames and the people were trapped."

"Did you recognize them?"

"Not at all. I saw a man and a woman, and I think three children. The whole place was ablaze. It was horrible."

"Did they say anything so that you could recognize their voices?"

I stopped and thought for a moment. I realized that what I remembered was like a silent movie. I saw it all, but there was no sound. I knew the people were in extreme pain, but I did not hear their screams … it was as if I felt their agony. "There was nothing to recognize."

"Well, I must say you are certainly creative with your dreams."

"What do you think I should do?"

"Do? There is nothing for you to do, just forget about it."

"I don't think I can. It was so real. Like a premonition."

"Premonition of what?"

"Like this dream is telling me to do something."

"Even if this was a prophetic vision of some sort, it could be that this is something that already happened. Possibly the place burned down years ago."

"No … it feels like it is going to happen. Maybe I am supposed to warn this family about their gas leak."

"What gas leak? It was a dream, remember?"

"I know that," I said trying to calm myself. "But I'm going to go over there and speak with whoever lives there now. It can't hurt."

"They're going to think you're nuts and I'm busy today. I won't be able to come down to free you from the looney bin if they commit you."

"Very funny, but I'm still going. I feel I have no choice."

"Do what you want, you're a big girl," said George in a dismissive tone.

"Are you now saying that I'm fat?" I said threateningly.

"Whoa, whoa. Those words never left my mouth. I do not have a death wish. Enjoy your visit to the old neighborhood and try not to get in trouble."

Our former home looked just about the same but it and the whole area had obviously seen better times. At least the trees were taller and there was more shade everywhere. Still, most of the homes needed paint jobs and the gardens and lawns all needed care. The cars parked in the driveways were older models and most needed a good wash. It was typical older neighborhood that was past its prime.

I was relieved to find that our neighbor's old home was still standing, and in one piece. It was a two story wooden home that originally had been painted white with dark wood trimming. It was now a uniform peach color and much of the paint was peeling. The side alley leading to the garage behind the house was blocked with overflowing garbage cans. I could see all sorts of trash along the alley and around the house. If old fuss pot Mr. Sanders, who had been so fastidious in keeping up his property, got a gander of the condition of his yard and alley he would have had a heart attack on the spot.

I parked my car at the curb and made my way up the front walk, carefully avoiding some broken children's toys abandoned on the path. I climbed the stoop and knocked on the aluminum outer door which had large holes in the screening. Scampering of feet told me someone was approaching and a young girl, who appeared around six years old, opened the inner door. It was late morning but she was still dressed in pajamas, and not very clean ones at that. Her unkempt hair and chronic runny nose hinted that she could do with a good scrubbing. The little girl looked up at me with innocent eyes and asked, "Who're you?"

A man's voice boomed out from the inside of the house with, "Who's there?"

The little girl kept staring at me and said, "Don't know, Pa. Some lady."

A women said loudly, "Mary Jane, why are you opening the door if you don't know who it is?"

The little girl turned towards the source, and asked honestly, "How'm I gonna know who it is if I don't open the door?"

I could hear footsteps approaching and young skinny woman in her twenties came to the door, wiping her hands on a dirty dish towel, "Mary Jane, a bump on a log would have more sense than you." She was wearing a faded house dress that was missing a couple of buttons and bare skin was visible in the opened gap at her waist. She turned to me and asked, "What can we do you for?"

I did not know how to begin. How could I explain the reason for me being there without appearing to be a complete fool. I started by saying, "Hi, you don't know me, but my name is Patricia Moyer and I used to live in the house next door."

"We've been here two years and I don't recollect ever seeing you before."

"Of course not. My family left this neighborhood about thirty years ago."

"So what are doin' here. Reminiscing?"

"No, … not at all," I stammered. "I know this will sound strange, but last night I dreamed about this house."

"You had a dream about our house?"

"Yeah, and the thing is I dreamt that there was a fire. A terrible fire and you couldn't get out."

"Oh my goodness," she exclaimed. "And this was our house?"

"Absolutely. I saw it clear as a bell."

"No shit," she said candidly.

"My sentiments exactly."

"I had an aunt that would dream things and they always came true. Are you like that?"

"Hardly. This is the first time I ever had a dream like that."

"But here you are telling me about it."

"Yes, I am."

"Come in please, I want my husband to hear this."

I followed the woman into the living room which was strewn with dirty laundry, newspapers, soiled paper plates, wrappers and other assorted trash. A thirty year old stout unshaven man, wearing torn jeans and T-shirt, had a can of beer in his hand and was sprawled across a stained three-seat sofa watching television. Two other younger children, also in dirty pajamas, were playing with pieces of broken toys and dolls on the tattered rug.

"Burt, this is Patricia. She used to live next door. She's just like my aunt Carol and had this dream where our house burned down. You gotta listen to her."

Burt hit the remote to mute the sound and said, "What the hell you talking about?"

The woman turned to me and said, "Tell him, Ma'am."

As clear as could, I told her husband about the leaking gas line to the furnace and the terrible fire. When I finished telling him the story he thought for a moment and asked, "What the F*** do you want me to do about it?"

This caught me by surprise. The obvious thing to do would be to check the gas line and have it fixed before it was too late, so that is exactly what I told him.

His facial expression was one of exasperation and after a moment he said, "There has been a smell of gas near that furnace for as long as we have lived here and nothing has ever happened."

"Well it wouldn't hurt to have a gas man check it and fix what's wrong," I answered.

"It wouldn't hurt you say?" he asked rhetorically. "The gas company don't make a service call for less than 75 dollars and they always find something that has to be fixed. We don't have the money."

"But it could be dangerous to stay here."

"Ma'am, with all due respect, the world is dangerous. And for all I know your goddamned dream is full of crap."

"Can't you find someplace else to go until the gas leak gets fixed?"

"Sure, call up the Ritz and tell them the Ansel family is planning to stay over for a month," he said sarcastically. "Meanwhile Patricia, thank you for your concern and F*** off," he said emphatically as he turned the TV sound back on.

The woman looked at me and said sheepishly, "Thank you for coming. But if that is what Burt wants to do … that's what we are going to do."

I left their home completely distraught. I could feel they were in imminent danger. 

Those poor children.

I knew I had to do something. After a moment's thought I decided to tell the police about what I dreamt. 

A sergeant at the precinct house listened politely to what I had to say. He told me that there really was nothing that he could do, but since the guy admitted that there was a smell of gas I could try talking to the building inspector's office. I did not tell the building inspector about my dream and emphasized the admitted gas leak. Surprisingly he agreed to go out to the house. I followed his car and parked down the block while he was inside.

After twenty minutes he came out and I approached him, "Well?"

"You were right. There is a bad gas leak and the furnace has faulty wiring. The place is a death trap."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"I told them that I am declaring the house temporarily unlivable. They have one half hour to pack a suitcase and the cops will be here to move them out. They can come back when the leak and wiring are fixed."

"But he told me he doesn't have money for a hotel."

"Yeah, I know. They're not the first ones. We have an arrangement with the Sun Crest Motel. It's a dive, but it's warm and clean. The city will pick up the tab."

I remained in my car until the police arrived and they escorted the family out of the house. I guess Burt spotted me, because he tried to come towards my car but the police restrained him. He yelled angrily in my direction, "You meddling bitch. Are you happy now? Who do you think you are … God's little messenger?"

They drove off and I reflected on what he had said. Yes, I did think I was God's messenger. This was a divine intervention. The Almighty had chosen me to implement His work and get them out of that dangerous house.

I went home with a feeling of accomplishment. I had done the work of God.

Next morning I woke and checked the morning paper. I knew I would read about how the Sanders house had burned down.

I was wrong. 

There was a fire, but it was at the Sun Crest Motel and the Ansel family, all five of them, had perished in the blaze.